The Spectral Breath
by BlueStarlightWriter
Summary: A noblewoman born in the time of Elvhenan is cursed with magic brewed by the hands of Dirthamen. Lahris wakes in the year 9.41 Dragon and seeks aid from the Inquisition to end her curse before she dies. Only it isn't just the wrath of a god she has to fear, but another sinister plot in the making. For what has Pride ever wrought that hasn't spoiled? SolasxOC. Comments appreciated.
1. Soul Keeper

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter One: Soul Keeper

In the long years of slumber for one of the elvhen, the beauty that once was Elvhenan had fallen unto ruin.

Spirits no longer sung in the vibrant tears of a shimmering river; magic no longer bathed in the colours of the wind. Horizons shone with a familiar dawn, evenfall fell in to the west as it always had since the beginning of Thedas. But though nature remained similar, the formations built into the foundations were utterly foreign.

One such elf had observed the generations closely, spied the founding of new provinces and the makenings of spires erected from the spare parts of her history. Though, to her pleasure, nature had always proven itself to be a thorn in the shadows, and had reclaimed the bones of her people many centuries later.

Yet the pariah that was humanity never truly folded. Empires far grander than those before, both ill and old, had proven destructive, ill-thought. Fields once rich in wheat had been burned away with only blood to sate nature's appetite. And the only word to drift through the ashes were the whispers of a faith that had blossomed into a poisoneous weed. One not even nature could reclaim.

The pantheon of the ancients had eventually been drowned by the fanatical maddening of a shemlen Maker. Her people did not even remember themselves.

Yet the mother-goddess and her children still rung true in her heart, but faith was a fraying virtue, one that not even an ancient could uphold eternally. And during her journeys she had found little to kindle her once bountiful pride in such spirituality. For before long she had come to realise what her mind dared not truly believe.

Mythal had long forsaken the great summits of western Fereldan. And the world was poorer for it.

In truth, the mountains had never truly been her domain in the Elvhen Pantheon, for it was Dirthamen that inhabited the farther lands away from the heartland where secrets dwelled deep within realms under lock and key. But when sunlight distanced in the west; when eve fell upon glaciers and high peaks glinted in the wake of silver radiance, the mother goddess would have reigned over all.

But the stone had at long last succumbed to mortality, lacking the gentlest of the godess' whispers. The very tempest from the mountains stood unshackled from the once merciful hand of her caress. Even the heavens were lain with snow and cloud. Far more grey without the true glimmer of an overbearing moon to guide the weariest of elvhen home.

Winter had come unkindly upon the world, perhaps resentful for the loss of the Gods. It was far more rueful to the small company that journeyed along wind-swept roads in pursuit of aid, unleashing cold that frosted the buckles on their belts and cloaked the fur of their mantles in snowfall.

The elf remembered their journey, just as she remembered the pantheon, though wary she was of both.

Lush valleys had been consumed by highland frost in a matter of days. Paths dipped and rose from the earth and with it mountain had begun to tower over the roads like ivory bone barring a chalky sea. Only by map and star charts had the company managed to guide themselves through such unchartered terrain, yet when the mountain claimed them, all they had were distant shadows playing on ice with cairns bracing the wind - the only ruins to distance themselves from the lethal fall of a cliff edge.

Very little could truly be seen in such weather, even when the elvhen lass straddled upon a hefty halla drew her cowl further across her brow, craning the leather in an attempt to keep the snow from catching her lashes.

Her halla was a mighty beast: one of antlers and hooves and mane. Yet such a beast was meant for southern plains and rich grassland, not high inclines or soft snow. He swayed to and fro while his long antlers churned the ice for firm land.

Through the storm, the halla itself could scarcely see, folding layer upon layer of white until his antler chipped the sharp corner of the cairn.

The elf reared the reins and changed her course, shifting him as far left as he could possible turn. And when he returned to a steady stride, she felt the cold flare across her fingers. Peering down upon the reigns, she found that her freckled hands were growing pale. She drew them to her lips and blew a warm sigh. Her fingers remained numb and white.

"How are you faring, Da'mi?" called a man through the long, drawn-out howls of the wind.

The elvhen mage peeked up from beneath her cowl, spying the neighbouring mare drifting her way. The rider caught the reigns of her halla and drew the straps together. His gaze was gold underneath his shroud, narrow and uncertain. "Andruil's mercy, has the cold gotten to you so quickly? You appear as death itself."

"Emma souveri," she whispered in the elvhen tongue, closing her eyes tight before murmuring a translation. "I am weary. How much farther have we to wander?"

The rider tore the shawl away from his jaw, presenting a sharp face of scars and hollowed cheeks. She found herself smiling at him, despite his scowl. "Not much father to go, I'm sure of it. The final cairn was only a stretch down the path. A little further and the fortress should appear just over the mountains. That's if this blighted cold doesn't claim us first."

"And… Skyhold is close at hand?"

"Very close. Spied ram carcasses not far down the way. Ravens were munching on the innards. Where there be ravens there'd be rookeries, and with a little luck, it won't be a village we come across but the hold itself. Burned meat by a well-lit hearth, ale and a bed. This I promise you."

The rider drew his mare up to the halla. He noticed his friend swaying and caught her shoulder with a gloved hand, shaking the feathered pauldron until she woke. "Hey, stay in this world, Da'mi. Don't go straying off to the Fade just yet. I promised I'd bring you to a healer, and that's damn well what I'm going to do, so stay awake just a little longer. You hear?"

The mage tried to focus but her gaze appeared as if glass itself, hazy and dim. Still, she found the strength to nod, falling back until her head connected with his shoulder. He sighed, patting the snow from her hair. "We've survived worse. Just stay awake a little longer. It's all I ask."

When the mounts parted she slumped back into her saddle, holding the reigns tight to her chest for the fear of falling.

A fall in such terrain would surely be her end. Still, she did wonder…

 _Would falling into the snow truly be so ill?_ The cold was peaceful, after all, numb and painless. Like a dream.

"We have only heard rumours of this Inquisition," she whispered, her words raspy, dry. "What if we are refused entry? The shemlen may turn me away for fear of disease."

"Then they're the ones with the disease, heartless rats. Mark my words, Da'mi, they'll have no choice."

Her lips split in a small smile. There was no pain. Only hope.

Hope was what they had to value most, for their expedition had been long and was destined to be far longer. Through the remainder of the night the beasts strained on the way to the crest of the mountain, shuddering even with thick fur under the sheerness of the element. Ferns fell to land, rock formations became unseen. Over the hours their path disappeared, leaving them lost in wander.

But when all seemed bleak, when days tarried on with agonising slowness and blurred with the remainder of the surroundings, when hope itself had withered, a fire begun to burn in the north. From the horizon great braziers flickered like embers rising high into the sky. And beneath were stone towers dappled by shadow with roves slanted in sleet. The closer the company dared to trek, the more of the fortress became clear, with old outer walls and pinnacles of an inner keep jutting out like a crown.

Skyhold was mighty even in the breath of a blizzard. The elvhen mage looked up from her saddle, lips parting for a quivering breath. She could imagine such a ruin in daylight, of how the courtyards in their youth intertwined with a flourishing bailey, how the keep may have sung with the battle cries of thousands.

A sense of familiarity crept upon her, causing her to frown. There was an essence to the foundations, something light and fleeting. Like the magic of old.

The two elvhen passed a stone bridge wrapped in chains, and with each step the walls of the fortress grew ever grander, baring them under its great shadow. It was not too long before the gateway came into view, with thick iron bars preventing their entry.

Jaras slipped from his mount. He shook the excess snow from his mantle and staggered forth to the front gate; an arm shielding his brow.

Through the gate a guard did emerge, tall, rounded and cloaked in Inquisition raiment. He eyed the elf warily, flicking his gaze up and down before settling upon his face. "Who goes there?"

Jaras threw his arm against the outer wall, lifting his shroud high.

The guardsman narrowed his eyes, having noticed the scars dotting the face of the elf. Surely it was not the most welcoming sight, marks of battle held upon tanned cheeks. The guard immediately curled his gauntlet over the hilt of his sword. "What say you, elf?"

"We are Fereldans seeking shelter from the storm!" Jaras slipped a hand into his inner jerkin, pulling from a pocket a frayed scroll with a ruby seal. He slipped it through the railing, watching closely as the guardsman took it. "Here, by decree we are to be permitted entry. Open these gates, I say."

Even from a distance, it was obvious the guardsman had trouble deciphering the text. He gestured for another guard to shine a torch over him, but even that did not last with the waging war of the wind. "Mercenaries?" he finally shouted, his voice dripping in accusation. "We already have mercenaries."

"Don't be a fool, shemlen. You've seen the hole in the sky. A few more fighters couldn't hurt. We're willing. We're able, and we're here. Now, open the damn gate."

The guard peered back upon the scroll, pale brows creasing ever tighter under a nasal helm.

Jaras sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose and pointing back to the elf still perched on her halla. "Look, we both know that the Inquisition can use all the help it can get. My friend, she is unwell. She needs a healer. Are you going to let us in or am I going to have to break this Veil-saken gate open myself?"

Curious, the guardsman squinted through the dark to the mage on the halla, frowning deeply when he saw the fragility of her state. Yet Lahris knew that there was no reason to not permit them safe haven. She indeed was weak, a ghastly alabaster that only seemed to worsen as time pressed on while the snowfall grew ever thicker. In some variants of torchlight, her hunched appearance would be indistinguishable from the mountain terrain. That should have scared her, but instead it gave her some small comfort. For when it came to the wilderness, as she had learned from the Dalish, it was sometimes far more opportune to blend into the surroundings then stand out.

And the parchment they had was one signed by the Spymaster of the Inquisition herself, sent for aid many months back when their army was little less than a battalion. It may have been a late response, but the significance of the letter still stood.

 _If they do not answer the call to arms_ , Lahris thought grimly, _then they are just as corrupt as any other shemlen order. Such false promises. And the Inquisition will fall to chaos, eventually._

"That won't be necessary," the guardsman decided, raising his arm high. Chain-mail figures drifted behind him. All of a sudden the iron gates began to shudder, cracking and rising from the frozen earth.

Crows fled from tattered nesting, plumes of black rising into the circular tower overlooking the courtyard. With a little movement the halla began to descend into the bowels of Skyhold, hooves clattering against wet cobblestone while the thunder of the gates consumed any other sound.

Though amidst such a blizzard, the majority of Skyhold seemed untouched. There were pits of steel and oak hidden where thatched cottages nestled together for haven, and such fires must have warmed the town from the breath of winter, for the cobblestones were damp, shimmering. The only traces of cold to bare were slithers of swords reaching down from tower corbels.

Yet despite the guardsman that patrolled the parapet walks, many of the arrowslits within the town remained unlit. The windows on the cottages were woven shut. The keep itself held a peculiar abandonment to it, as if ghosts were the only ones residing inside. It was only the armorsmith that held any sort of luminance, and that was from the heat of a forge that could never truly be allowed to vanquish.

Lahris felt the last of her strength wain. Her chest felt plagued by a forbidden magic that until now had managed to remain dormant. Her heart spasmed, her fingers twitched against the reigns. Her cowl dropped further into her chest, and she slumped forward, resting on the neck of her halla.

The creature sensed her displeasure, beginning to flick his antlers from side to side and rear back against the cobblestone, preventing any neighbouring human to go too near.

Jaras quickly grabbed the reigns and pulled the snout of the halla down into his hand, soothing the beast with a few eloquent words. He then tied the straps to a nearby post, pulled himself onto the saddle and hugged Lahris to his chest, gently tugging her down. "It's alright, Da'mi. We're here, you're safe now"

Lahris shivered in his hold, curling her fingers deep into his jerkin. When she met his gaze, her eyes once bright like summer grassland flickered in an unusual violet, one that bore no natural familiarity, just a curse as ancient as the moon and stars. For a moment it seemed as if he was looking into eyes belonging to another person, a reflection, a window into the mind of another soul. Then the colour faded just as swiftly as it had come.

Jaras held her closer, humming into her long ears and stoking the snow from her braids. "Stay with me, lass. The shemlen have called for a healer. You just need to hold on a little longer."

The mage chuckled, smiling away her pain. "If a… shemlen could heal me, then… that would be a worthy gift indeed."

He winced, kissing her crown.

She never thought her life would end in the arms of a friend, nor that it would be a shemlen to be her only saviour. The very thought was absurd, sickening. Yet when a healer did indeed approach them, swaying in the angelic robes of the Maker, she could do little other than grit her teeth and bury her nose deeper into his chest.

The healer hovered over her, shrugging the mantle from the elf's shoulders and checking the skin for breakages. What the healer found had her ruby lips puckering. "I see no physical wounds, ser. Has she truly been in a battle?"

"She has, lass," Jaras replied, unlacing the straps along Lahris' left arm and tugging the fabric free.

Lahris had to bite her lip to quell fresh tears. Scarring supple skin were the roots of poison; black groves that rippled like watery tattoos but were pulsing in hues of violet. The further the healer searched, the worse the marks became until the entirety of her left shoulder had been consumed, appearing as a patch of skin with ashen bruises.

"By the Maker," the healer whispered, cupping her mouth. "How did this happen, ser? What kind of blood magic is this?"

Upon the sound of a forbidden art, several guardsmen had emerged from the gateway, arms braced menacingly on their swords.

Jaras stared at the healer questionably before stepping away, tugging his friend back until his body was all that could be seen. "Listen, it isn't blood magic! She's sick, can you not tell? We've been told your order can help - will help. Use ointment, or a spell, I don't care, just see that's she's healed."

The healer's rounded face softened. "I-I would not even know where to begin, ser. The wound… it is like nothing I have ever seen. Perhaps, this is the Maker's will. We can end her suffering, perhaps make her passing more comfortable for her."

At the mention of a funeral, an argument sounded out for what felt like years. Lahris tried to concentrate on their words, but it eventually fell on deaf ears. All she could feel was her heart, the unsteady thrum battering against her chest for some form of release. Strength in her legs instantly faded. She collapsed into the snow, scratching at her chest, raking her nails until her skin begun to bleed.

Magic in its very definition was deadly. In that moment, she knew no other truth. Her eyes closed, her body fell limp, and from her skin a spell unknown to any mage surged through the courtyard, snuffing out all trace of life that was near her. Guardsmen were flung from the ramparts, swords were left to clatter unmanned against the stone. The very essence of a god had been unleashed, and any within the vicinity had either been scorched to ash or lay maimed near the gateway.

"Apostate!" many called along the parapet walks. "Murderer!" cried others. Some simply stared at the scene before them, shock stilling them from any motion of movement.

Just as her magic began to spread further out, a sudden lash of light ceased it. From the corner of her eyes, Lahris could just about see the shadow of a man. He spun the magic from her like a loom, threading the thin fibres into the crystal of his staff with long, nimble fingers. She felt the stone in her heart lighten, as if water had suddenly flooded into the artery. She could finally breath without drowning, feel the crisp cold of the blizzard without suffering.

She drew in a quiet breath, parting her focus from the man to the sky, where clouds begun to part and a moon begun to peek. "Mythal…"

From the keep many men and women huddled by the doors, observing the scene as it begun to settle. Ghosting over the ruins was the Right Hand of the Divine, her hand drifting over the ashes of the fallen, churning the grains with her fingers. She surveyed the ground, searched for any hint of the identity of her soldiers, but none could be found. "Who could do this?" she asked, sadness and demand spoken in unity.

From the gateway the apostate had managed to curl the last remaining threads of magic from the elvhen mage, settling his fingers on the staff's crown. He watched the crystal undulate, the inner energy coursing through, rattling against the cage before disappearing entirely. He sighed, rubbing the wrinkles from his brow until he heard an unfamiliar whimper.

He spied the woman on the ground, noticed how she gazed up into the sky and murmured words even his keen ears could not hear. He knelt, cupping her left cheek and tilting her chin to his face.

Her gaze remained glazed, hazy, but when her eyes met his, a tear slipped down her cheek. He leaned over her, the base of his ear just ghosting her lips.

The Right Hand of the Divine crept up behind him, placing her hand on his shoulder. "What does she say, Solas?"

The apostate frowned, leaning up to meet the seeker. "You should fear me."

...

I recently started this story on my old fanfic account, The-Freckled-Mouse, and I have since reread the story and can't believe I've left it abandoned this long - for ages I lost the password to my account and just never went back on, which is why I have this one. But I have fallen back in love with the story but cringe at how badly my writing was. So I'm going to be updating all of the chapters and will be posting them on this account. So sorry for any inconvenience I've just been using this account for so long that it feels easier for me to post on.

Because im only updating the chapters and making them less cringeworthy they should be put on here pretty quickly. I've also noticed quite a few plot elements that need correcting and instead of just deleting half of the story it'll be easier when I rewrite it.

i hope you continue to love this story, and if you wish to read the rest so far (even though the writing is terrible), please find this on my the-freckled-mouse account x


	2. Innocent Until Proven

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Two: Innocent Until Proven

The world felt distant… uncertain… as if she had been cast aside by the hand of her divine, left to wake within a foreign realm, one of floating dust and whispering walls. A tower, thatched in sanded stone and timber beams that rounded a conical ceiling.

Lahris pressed her hands along the floor and felt strands of moss prickling her fingertips. But her arms could only stretch so far, for a shackle bound them together, rattling each time she tugged on her chain. The release lay strung across her chest, rising with each shaky breath.

In the beginning she did not know what manner of chamber she had woken in, for her knowledge on shemlen architecture had been limited at best. But no one could mistake the squalor of a prisoner: from the shadowed walls to the oaken door that had a slit in the centre, one that allowed only a little semblance of daybreak through. Even rats needed radiance of day after all.

She had attempted to pry the lock open with a spell; had even spied a shimmer of frost staining the iron. But then the ice had melted within moments. The lock glimmered, pulsed in a dull jade, then seeped back into the scratched silver. She attempted to pull it free, only to no avail. In the correct light, markings glowed a faint hue, thrumming even through the magic in her veins. The marks of a rune.

 _They have had prisoners before with the gift,_ she had realised, worriedly biting her lip. _And her staff was nowhere to be seen._

The elf took in a deep breath, stilling the flutters in her chest. No harm had come to her thus far, and so long as she remained compliant, those who captured her may remain kindly. But the shadows begun to distort and flicker. She kept peeking over her shoulder, expecting to see rats behind her, only to spy water and creepers seeping through long-dug crevices.

From beyond her dwelling transpired an accumulation of whispers, words rushed in tones that she could not decipher despite the twitching of her ears. Even if she could hear them, it may have taken her time to understand what they spoke. The speech of shemlen was always so swift, after all, like grains of sand hurriedly falling from the top shelf of an hourglass.

The groaning of ancient hinges brought her out of her reverie. From the doorway came a flood of daylight, causing Lahris to shield her brow until her sight managed to tell the shadows apart. From the outside had come two people: one a Seeker held strong even in heavy chain mail, yet who presented herself as an austere woman, with a rigidly puritanical presence. The other kept close to the darkness. Only a cowl dared to sneer into the daylight, like a crow beak waiting for the chance to feast.

It was not the first that struck fear into the elf, but the second hidden, plotting her demise. The very thought was a saber through her courage, tweaking her nerves until she would sing like a songbird.

Lahris squinted through the daylight, spying a sharp, rounded face with dark features whose only spoil was a slit over the left of her jaw. Still, she was a wearisome sight and the very thought of her using the long sword strapped to her waist-belt had the mage biting her lip even harder, so much so that she even tasted a bead of iron.

"Do you know why you are here?" the Seeker asked, curling her hands against her thighs. "You were caught raging chaos within our own walls. Many good men now lay dead by your hands. Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now."

"I… _din'an_? What do you mean, death?" the elf stuttered, casting a glance over her left arm. "I do not… I'm unsure of what you mean."

"You tell us. The last we heard you and your accomplice had come into a Skyhold with this scroll," she said, pulling from her breast plate a partly burned partment. The sight of it chilled her to the bone. "This was written by our Spymaster. It has the seal of the Inquisition. This was meant for mercenaries back when we had only a banner, but you come under good faith and kill my men without mercy. I will not ask a second time. Who sent you?"

"I… I promise you, this is a misunderstanding. I would never… I never meant to hurt anyone," she pleaded, raising her shackled hands. "You have to understand, I have no control over what happens to me."

The Seeker snorted, raising her hand in mockery. "An apostate who isn't able to control her own magic. Is that what you would have us believe?"

"There's no sign of possession, Cassandra," claimed the shadows. The elf frowned at the flutter of vowels in the other authority, expecting a voice of dispassion rather than one with a subtle flare of culture. It reminded her of fine wine and delicate cakes. That nobility could lace through the common threads of a peasant birth was surprising to her. "None we've seen at least. It's possible a demon does rest inside her, but it would be powerful."

"If that were true, Leliana, the lyrium forged into her binds would have shown its presence by now. The Templars were thorough before she was locked away."

"Then it is not possession."

The Seeker frowned, staring at her prisoner in question for sometime. Lahris begun to figit, her ears dropping low. And then the Seeker dove forward, roughly hauling her shoulders up until she was on her knees. "You're lying!"

Lahris grimaced, not under the tight clutch of the Seeker but of a familiar burn that steadily pulsated lower and lower through her left arm.

"Please, let me go," she whispered, finding enough strength to tug back.

"Or what? You will kill me like you did my loyal men? Men who now have no wives, no families. Their souls are with the Maker now, their future gone in the blink of an eye. And you want me to let you go?"

"Please…" the elf whispered, feeling her magic flare ever-more swiftly. She threw herself back from the Seeker, falling upon the ground as a splinter of magic ripped through her very core. The essence was a violet vein that lashed out from her arm to imbed straight into the rock by the doorway, shattering the stone in mere heartbeats.

The Seeker and her accomplice stared at the scorched rock in shock, eying the blackened debris as a trail of smoke rose from it. Lahris twitched as the last of her mana was pooled into the lyrium of her shackles, but even that would only hold momentarily. The holding itself had been damaged, the iron crooked and black.

Lahris sighed as the last of her magic had begun to die, eventually returning to a dormant state. She feared how much longer she would have to bare the spontaneous bursts, ghosting her fingertips along the vivid scars. Another branch had grown since her slumber, curving around her wrist.

"Cassandra, does this… remind you of anything?" the shadowed woman asked, finally stepping into the light.

"Yes, it reminds me of the Herald. But how is this possible, Leliana? We saw from the Breach that there was only one survivor. She could not possibly be from that."

"Perhaps a smaller breach is the cause of this." Leliana knelt on one knee, smoothing her bare fingertips across the stone as if it were some sacred tapestry. "We should tell the Inquisitor."

"She is an elf. He will not judge her fairly," the Seeker sighed, aiding her friend to her feet. "You know how he feels about the Dalish."

"Still, it must be done."

Lahris observed the two reach the doorway, ready to shut the door and allow darkness to keep her once more. Before all traces of daylight were snuffed she attempted to rise from her place, only to fall to her knees, finding her shackles tied deeply to the flagstone. "Please, tell me if Jaras and my halla survived."

The shadowed woman paused in the doorway, her hand softening against the door. "Jaras?"

"My friend. He aided in my coming here. Believe what you will, my falon only had good intentions. We never meant for your people to… perish. My halla, Assan, he is a fierce beast at times but if he can be corralled he will be complacent. Have you come by either of them? Are they safe?"

She noticed the lack of an answer. Her hope begun to curl knots into her chest, withering as an oak without its roots.

And then had come a breath of calm wind. "Your halla was found outside the castle walls. My men have kept him in the stables. He should be fine there. As for your friend, his wounds were deep. Our healers are treating him. Whether he will survive the day remains to be seen."

The elf quietly nodded, assuming as much. _Jaras is a fighter, he will survive. We all will._

From the doorway the Seeker loomed, firming her grasp on the shoulder of Leliana. "There's no use, Leliana. Either way, her fate is not our decision. That belongs to the Herald."

"That doesn't mean that we can't gain information from her, Cassandra," she frowned, pink lips puckering and silvered arms folding across a thin waist. "Speak. Plea your case while you still have our attention."

Lahris took a moment to steady her nerves, then raised her head high. "I'm unsure on what to tell. We sought a mage from your Inquisition. One of my own kin yet unmarked by the Dalish. He was supposed to aid us, if he still resides here."

The Seeker stepped forward. "You mean Solas?"

Pride? The elf thought, frowning down. _Pride, perhaps that is the name._ "That may be who we seek. I have never met him. Only heard rumour."

"And how could Solas help you?" the Seeker asked, suspicion more than evident.

Lahris raised her left arm gingerly. "This is old magic. A gift or a curse I do not know, but if anyone could aid in ceasing the lack of control with this magic, it may be him. He is a scholar, yes? A learner of the old ways? They say he is kindred. Perhaps that is enough. If he cannot help me…"

"Then what will happen?" asked Leliana.

The elf swallowed thickly, shaking the fear from her mind. "Then I die."


	3. He Who Lords

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Three: He Who Lords

The darkness betrayed no length of time. Lain in the corner of a tower, praying for one more birth of daylight from the outside. It never came. It could not come. Even daylight, the most natural of all magic, could not surpass the mundane - a broad latch of sanded oak, one pressed firmly into a door lying slightly ajar from its mooring. She knew the guard did it on purpose. She could hear the breathless chuckle from the outside, sense the mirth kindling within his gut like solid rot.

Perhaps it was his brother she had fatally wounded. Perhaps he despised the power a mage could wield whether intentionally or not and wished only for her to suffer. Perhaps he simply did not like the sight of elves in his presence. She did not care.

Her mind lay on those she had sent to the Fade. Should she have been surprised that she felt no sadness? Nay even a whimper? When she tried, all she could envision were the thousands of her own that had ended in the hands of such round-ears. That was not to say she hated humanity. She tolerated them, even found some of them kindly. But the actions of her guard only fueled a disappointment she knew would never change.

She had begun to hum a small tune when the nights were quietest. The magic of old always seemed to settle when she sung a lullaby, perhaps due to a sense of longing, perhaps due to a calmed host.

All around she felt the presence of spirits keen to gain entry to her dwelling. Angered spirits that fought in the thickest shadow; murmured in the thinnest of rat warrens. Even the birds settled in the rookeries above fluttered at the whispers, causing dust to drift from the beams.

She cast her mind away from such troubles, preferred to trace the outlines of her scars, finding the magic pulsing deep like another heart, another spirit. Sometimes, though subtle and rare, she would glimpse a realm through the blackness, like rippling tar parting to reveal reflected clarity. And within there heralded a heather sky with no stars; scarred earth with no grass. And a mirror, an eluvian, that cast faces too hazy to identify. There was a sense of heat to them however, deep and dreadful like a hearth burning in the foulest of magic.

Then her scars would ripple anew and she would find her own face in the glassy surface - a heart-shaped canvass of tanned skin and mournful features. She never did seem youthful when peering down in such a way, like she was years wiser than she truly was.

And one day it had seemed her prayers had been answered. Yet of course it was not the way she had wished.

She was hauled from the tower by the Inquisition and forced to stand straight against the dawn. There was no blindfold: they allowed her to see as she was guided forth by the hands of the Seeker into the day.

Lahris kept her lips firm at the sight of the Skyhold residents, peasants that surrounded the pathways through the bailey, throwing curses and rotten fruit at her feet. She stumbled against her chains. Fell into rotten cabbage. Her knees stung as she was taken anew to her feet, and the chorus of the widowed only filled her ears with pain.

 _Is this how they treat justice?_ she wondered, before spying traces of ash by the front gate. The cobblestone had been blackened beneath the snow. Pillars had gouges cut from the stone and much of the inner chains had to be reattached for the majority had been severed. It must have been the cause for the crowd that stood sentinel beyond the gateway; farmers, carts and scouts that could not gain entrance despite the Inquisition trying to force the gate open.

She had done that. She had caused all that destruction, had almost destroyed an empire before it had the chance to flourish. It was only the beginning.

"They hold you accountable for the deaths of their husbands, their brothers," the Seeker announced. "They need it if to dampen the despair in their hearts. We have been through so much. Our beloved Haven was taken from us by a foe we now face, and just when we gain the courage to make our stand, you come to us."

Lahris stared at the tear-stricken faces, felt the anguish blooming from them like waves from the sea. Her lips parted, breathless. So much hatred. So much despair. All because of her.

"You bring fire and destruction. For that, we demand justice. Repentance."

The elf lowered her gaze, cloaking her face in ash-woven braids. "Ir abelas Seeker, but what you claim was not my doing. I am as much affected by this as your people."

The Seeker scowled, parting from her guards to tug her prisoner further towards the Keep. "Defiant to the end. In another world, I would have admired that. It does not matter."

They halted by a long stairway, were the guardsman of the Inquisition were replaced by knights of an old order: ones of silver plates and blocked helms, so thick that no semblance of life could be seen within. They were statues of armour, induced in a shield that drained her mana, leaving her weak and numb. For that was the purpose of Templars, called upon when a mage had been found and needed to be locked away.

"I can promise a trial," the Seeker said, unlocking her binds with a bronze key. Her shackles clattered against the stone. "I can do no more."

Lahris fell into the arms of the Templars, head hung low and legs drained of all strength. "Is this to be… a fair… trial?"

The Seeker looked away, scowling to her side.

 _No,_ Lahris thought grimly, observing the stairway pass beneath her. _When was anything fair with their kind?_

She struggled, shrugging her shoulders back and forth while her feet continued to be dragged, catching on every third step. By the time she had managed to gain any triumph in her resistance, the great oaken doors of the Keep had come to greet her. Yet once those doors parted, any hope of rebellion immediately ended.

It had been many years since the elf had felt such dread, yet peering upon a sea of dresses and frocks, all concealed in porcelain half-masks, as well as being the sole event among the noblemen of the court, had instantly set her heart to stone. A throne hall, befitting no other than a king, rose before her, long and tall like the rising of a great forest over a distant hillside. In the distance, the dawn shone through jade-stained glass, heralding not only a throne crowned in scepters but also royalty itself.

A lord, born from the threads of a warrior, for his entire raiment was armour wielding a starburst seal, and upon his brow was the sharpest golden aureole ever seen. Whether the play on light was done on purpose, she did not know, but she could understand why the Herald had come to be worshipped as a God. The Keep, all that lay within, from the silver chandeliers to the banners waving in a radiance honeyed by the rising sun, were a grandiloquent celebration to Inquisition and Orlesian glory. The marks of Fereldan lay nestled in the back corners; the light touch of a bear rug or fur pelt were barely bright enough to rival the cutlery.

In the beginning, there was a symphony of resentment; hushed whispers passed between talebearers; servants pausing in their chores to spy one of their knife-eared own being dragged down the isle. She was forced upon her knees, made to bow by the heel of a grand staircase. And from above the judgement of the Herald, the Inquisitor, the Lord of Skyhold, lay apparent for all to bare witness to.

The curl of an upturned lip. The crossing of woollen brows thick in aged lines. The drumming of impatient fingers against a throne-arm of solid silver. The elf may have not known humanity entirely, but she had come to know their customs, their language, even their idioms to some extent. And their body language was all the more understood.

Lahris swallowed thickly, lowering her head even more until her chin rested against her chest.

The symphony ended by a raised hand. Everyone in the court, from the lowly servants to the richest of noblemen silenced in a matter of moments. All that sounded after was the speech of his adviser.

"Mistress Lahris Elgar'shiral, an apostate of the Fereldan Dalish is present, your worship. She is accused of infiltrating the Inquisition in the ruse of aid, and is accused of aiding and betting the downfall of our order. Several of your men perished by her hands. Our spymaster has found no ties to Corypheus, nor the Venatori, nor Tevinter. She claims a curse of old magic is the cause and that she is as innocent as the men she has murdered. To say nothing of justice, you might personally require for what was suffered to the families of the deceased."

The Inquisitor nodded. "Thank you, Ambassador."

The elf folded her hands together, her nails dug deeply into white knuckles.

"My spymaster was unable to find any trace of an accomplice from you, elf. That is impressive. Not many can conceal their secrets from the eyes of the Inquisition, and yet you do," said the Inquisitor, leaning back in his throne. "The severity of murder is thought of very highly in my court. The only befitting punishment I can see for when my subjects have done wrong is simple: justice as severe as the crime. Namely death itself."

Lahris felt a shiver through her spine, and curled her fingers even more.

"I find myself curious, however. The devastation you created was far more powerful than that of a mere apostate. Some of those we have in servitude are unable to create such a feat. And my Templars found no demon in you, so the Fade isn't the root cause. You can speak, yes? The real tongue, I mean. Not that of other knife-ears. You blame old magic. Tell me where you found it. Do not lie. I will know if you do."

Lahris sat quiet for sometime, mumbling events under her breath. Then, she said, "My friend and I were scavengers. We found a ruin to the north of Fereldan and uncovered an artifact that held energy we had never seen before. It was the magic of my God. Somehow the magic came undone and I now harbour it, but I cannot control it. It is not like natural magic. It feels… corrupted. And I believe it is…" She sighed. "It will kill me if it continues. I did come to the Inquisition seeking aid. That was no lie!"

"And how can my Inquisition help you? We do not fool ourselves on your history, elf. We follow the rulings of the Maker, of Andraste. We attempted to offer help to your people in the Dales and that only ended in bloodshed. Perhaps this is retribution for the time we showed compassion. Perhaps I will not share that mistake with my forefathers."

"Compassion?" Lahris pressed her lips together, searching her knees for any loss in her translation. "Compassion? Your people slaughtered the elves. Have you ever walked the breath of that land? Seen the monuments the elves crafted from the living rock, moulded into the foundations? That was what was lost. _Vhenas_. Magic. And now the only semblance of magic left from that time is within me, and you're just going to drown the very essence of it so that my history is forgotten. That the elves are forgotten. How is that compassion, Inquisitor?"

The Inquisitor scratched his jaw with bony fingers, stroking the stubble down to the throat. "I see you are a knower of history, elf. Though your notions on the subject are flawed. The magic in you is more likely the conjurations of a demon unseen by my Templars, not some magic of a false pantheon."

"Then why would I come here if my fate was to be death? I came because I know you hold someone who knows about elvhen magic, that knows such history. I thought he could uncover what sort of magic I hold and perhaps find a cure. If you do not believe me, and if this does not warrant saving my life, then perhaps you should know something else."

The Lord of Skyhold leaned over the edge of his throne, steepling his thumbs and fingers beneath his chin. "And what would that be, hmm? The murder of men good or ill is a punishable offence that is binding. What could possibly sway my mind in your favour?"

"I-"

From the doorway had come a chorus of commotion, one of guardsmen, screams and drawn swords. And an elf who limped down the isle at first unseen, until the guardsmen heard his steps.

Lahris knew the elf as soon as she noticed the bow strapped to his back, yet the state he was in gave her a momentary pause. His breeches were torn around his bony knees. The feathers along his mantle had been seared by heat and flaked to the floor with every limp. Even his jerkin had been marred in dried blood, and his left arm lay in a bandaged sling. The only thing that kept him upright was a wooden cane, and even that seemed brittle.

Her gaze softened. _Oh Jaras…_

"Who dares interrupt the court?"

"The defense, of course," Jaras replied, jerking to a halt at the edge of the staircase. He teetered just over the step, tilting his head to see Lahris still bowed. He raised a scarred brow. "Surely you knew I was coming, lad? Did no one inform you on the cripple limping your way? I take pride in my hunting but when I want to be seen, I'm not that hard to miss."

The Inquisitor frowned, glancing over to his adviser who merely shrugged. "No, my advisers refreigned to mention you."

Jaras gave a crooked smirk, crinkling one eye in pain. "That's shemlen for you."

Lahris stared at her friend in bewilderment, not daring to meet the eye of the Inquisitor. "Jaras. It is good to see you but now is not the time."

"Now is the best time, Da'mi. I have the attention of the lord himself! The Inquisitor of Skyhold!" He grinned, elegantly bowing his head. "Your majesty! I must say it is an honour to address such a lording shemlen. Word hath travelled far indeed, and I must say, you do not disappoint."

Silence hung in the air like Orlesian tapestry: startling and scandalous. The Inquisitor himself did not speak, for he merely watched the elf parade across his hall, tapping his jaw with three long fingers.

"I bid you good tidings? I pray your mother remains a fat hearty wench and that all children born from her womb are hefty and noble? That is how your people speak, aye?"

The Inquisitor frowned even further, though he did not seem surprised by the display. "You're Dalish, aren't you? I recognise the smell. Your people do love to make a fool of themselves, do they not?"

Jaras no longer smiled. It was more of a wavering frown, mischievous yet sour, as if his lips were not quite sure which expression to display. "To mock the afflicted, lad, even that is low for a human."

"Oh no, you see that is where you are wrong, on so many accounts. It is in my understanding that should your friend not have attempted to overthrow my Inquisition, you would not be injured. Should you not direct your judgement upon her? She is after all the cause of all this."

"The cause? You're blind if you do not see that she's the victim in all this. These scrapes, they're nothing compared to what will come to us all."

The Inquisitor pursed his lips. "What do you mean, will come to us all? I grow tired of your games. Speak true or I will hear none of it."

Jaras gazed down upon his friend who was at the mercy of a shemlen lord, knowing full well that authority had always been more than a weakness for her. He slipped his hand into the satchel by his thigh and took from the confines a jagged rock of grey smeared in a violet shell, placing it by her knees.

The Inquisitor peered down from his throne, squinting at the object placed by the elf's side. He begun to chuckle, madly it seemed, shaking his head so slowly that his crown struck lines into the air. "You bring a rock into my presence, expecting me to believe that a rock is the cause of the power she wields? We at the Inquisition are in need of a jester. You would be splendid for the role."

"I always knew shemlen weren't that bright but by Andruil was I mistaken," Jaras sighed, holding his brow. "It's truth, shemlen. Why would my ancestors make a grand display on power they wished hidden, huh? There are markings on the side that are elven! And the magical display my Da'mi did was but one display of many, your majesty. There are countless more of these lil' beauties in Fereldan, and the magister that is collecting them is growing more powerful by the day."

Lahris took the shard by the wrappings, cradling it in her lap. "My master is searching for us," she confessed. "For my shard. He wishes to collect them for a plan we still do not know, but it cannot be good. What I do know is _di'nan_ , death, will come to all who stand in his way, and he has seen your Inquisition. Even now, his spies will tell him that we have sought safety from you. He will take that as an act of treachery and end your Inquisition in the coming months."

Gasps spread throughout the entirety of the Keep like wildfire. Many of the noblemen begun to bicker to themselves, whispering in each other's ears with gloved hands concealing their words.

The Inquisitor merely raised his hand again and leaned on the very edge of his throne. "See the organisation I have built around you? This was done in a year. A year. In that year, we have grown to become one of the most fearsome armies any capital could ever face. We hold riches not even the King of Fereldan could uphold. We hold spies in every corner of the world. Nothing is without my knowing."

"And yet I, a lonely elf, managed to gain entry to your Inquisition and cut off your supply of food at the main gate in a matter of heartbeats. By accident, it was but I still managed it. Imagine what he could do with eight times my power." Lahris shuddered, holding her shard more closely. "He would be a God."

The mention of godship seemed to instill fear into the Inquisitor. It was only a mild crease in his brows, a quirk in his lip relatable to a quiver. But she knew it to be true.

The Inquisition was already at the behest of one god searching for lordship over the world by the rumours she had heard. An ancient Tevinter Magister if the tales were to be believed, man and darkspawn combined. Demons poured from the sky daily. Some areas of Fereldan were so treacherous that entire cities had been swallowed whole by the the realm of spirits, the Fade. And now there was mention of another god that could truly be the end of the Inquisition.

Lahris breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps, finally, they had come to an understanding. "You might see our coming here as an act of treason, of showing my master where you are. I promise you, Inquisitor, I did not come here lightly. In truth, your Inquisition is our only hope."

The Inquisitor remained silent. Far too silent. He motioned over his adviser, then took a quill and parchment and begun to write laced text into the creases. When he finally put the quill down and gave his adviser the letter, the Keep was dim and chilly. Lahris could feel the walls closing in, as if her fate, to live or die, hung by a thread.

Finally, judgement had been made. "Until your words can be evidenced by my advisers, you will remain within Skyhold under our… protection. You will be escorted through our halls always with a guard, and you will provide all information you know about this opposing threat to my Knight Commander. I will have my advisers arrange a meeting for your artifact to be studied immediately."

Lahris' eyes widened at the decision, not expecting such hospitality from a human. But when she thought she had nothing to worry about, the Inquisitor continued. "But, if we do find that you have sprouted nothing but lies this morning, then as an apostate you will be judged and sentenced as any mage in the Templar Order would have been before the disbandment of the Circle of Magi. You will be made tranquil, left to serve the Inquisition to the end of your days, and your Dalish accomplice will be hanged for treason. Is that understood?"

" _Tranquil_ ," she breathed, finding knots twisted painfully in her gut. Her fingers began to shake against her shard. Magic flooded through her arm, yet somehow she managed to resist. "I-I would prefer death, like my friend. Tranquility, it is worse than death, I-"

"Let us hope you have not lied then, elf," the Inquisitor cautioned, beckoning the Seeker up to his throne. "Seeker Pentaghast, escort these two to their new living arrangements. Do see that they don't get too comfortable."

Her mind became a blur of emotion, need, anxiety. She attempted to struggle but found that her arms had once again been constrained by Templars, who imbued a mana drain into her skin. Her legs were soon limp against the floor, allowing the Templars to easily drag her down the isle, as pliable as a puppet to its master.

The last she saw was the glimmering dawn of the throne hall baying her a mocking farewell.


	4. Eyes of the Old

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Four: Eyes of the Old

In the beginning, she believed no other truth than what many had already come to know: that Skyhold was meant to be her tomb. Imprisonment in halls manned by mortal men, where secrets sung willingly from the lungs of the captured. Where even spirits in ethereal flight took pity on the damned. Wept upon the sight of her mistreatment.

When she was shown the bedroll and desk to be hers in a forgotten tower, she felt the fluttering nerves of a dove caged. Her wings flittered against grey-stained glass, her beak pecked at forbidden latches, her talons threaded into the very stonework under hazy radiances of candle flame, chipping into crevices until new stone was found, but did not budge.

Yet after a day of being alone, two days, then three days… the unlikely occurred. The calling of _Vhenas_. Home.

Her tower no longer felt like unfamiliar stone enraptured in ice and cold. The glass no longer reflected scenes of dream and yearning. The patter of rats no longer bayed her farewell, but rather welcome. And she smiled, beneath the rim of a feathered hood. Warmth grew from the floor, even though little fur draped the cobblestone. Daylight and moonlight lit her home, even inscribed patterns of memory into the shadows.

The essence of Skyhold had become more of a home to her than breathing itself. The tingle in her fingertips, the murmurings of spirits on the wind. Even the evergreens beneath her tower, flaked in chalk and sage, danced in the eve, like all was once as it was. Even the Fade felt less homely to her. Little sleep dared to enter her thoughts. She wished none other than to explore the very depths of the ruin she had found, learn the very intricate details of history. She needed freedom, but not that of will. Instead, in the palace of the Inquisition.

The Right Hand of the Divine had found her not long after the fourth day had passed. Her tower had been opened, the binds of her home unleashed. She stepped through the doorway lightly, unsure, curling her arms further over her chest. Her bare feet tapped along stone steps, curling daintily over the edges. Trails of a magi robe, gold and silver, followed as silk to a loom. The second tower then parted to accompany another, and together the two elves ventured over the parapet walks of the courtyard, passing guardsmen and archers in sway. The Seeker guided them through walkways arched in lichen, oceaned by pools of dawn lotus and crystal grace that entwined in the gardens, were from afar statues of Andraste peeked over leaves in golden delight, her arms cupped out, demanding the attention of her followers. And then they reached the throne hall of the Keep.

Lahris observed the decoration in the fireplaces she passed, of bowing lions and bejewelled crow wings. Even Jaras ogled the shiny gems imprinted into the breast, in the ornaments placed over the flushed hearths. It took a keen eye to spy the shimmer of false glass.

A charade of wealth is a charade of command, and all will eventually fall to plunder, she thought sadly, ghosting her fingers along the mantle. It is pretty, though.

The Seeker halted by the second doorway, cranking the knob with a gauntlet fist. She paused in her turning, peering back over her shoulder to spy Jaras' wandering gaze. Her lips firmed. "Do not attempt to steal from us. You will regret it."

"Believe me, lass, there are worse thieves than I in these halls," Jaras confessed, staring distantly at the glimmering throne, bandaged fingers twitched over his thigh. "At least I'm an honest one."

She snorted. "An honest thief? Surely you cannot have me believe such a lie."

"I'm no different than the lasses in the masks, lass. Didn't think they were eying your lord's throne with all itching fingers and waddling tongues? I may have the ears and marks, might be branded knife-ear or rabbit, but 'least I'm not hiding who I am. Might want the rear of the throne guarded next time you have the shemlen at court. It'd only take a moment for a swindler to chip away the jewels and pouch 'em, ready for when the convicted are hanged."

Lahris folded her arms together, turning to face the door. "He speaks the truth, Seeker Pentaghast. My falon may be a thief, but it is not he you will need to guard closely."

"Is that supposed to reassure me?"

She raised her shoulders. "Being a little cautious can never end badly."

"Believe me, I intend to be cautious. Of both of you. Now, follow me."

The three left the rays of day to find solace in a newly lit hall, one with a ceiling that curved over them like a cave. "You will be spending much of your time here," said Cassandra, closing the door behind her. "Skyhold is open to you, but that does not mean you have free-reign of the fort. You will be watched. There are guards posted in every parameter of Skyhold. If you come into trouble, I will hear of it. The atrium and library are open to you, as are parts of the courtyard. For other areas, you must come to me for permission. Is that understood?"

"And what will we be doing here, exactly?" Lahris asked, leaning on her tiptoes to peek into the neighbouring atrium. She spied paintings adorning curved walls, though the remainder of the shapes were too grand to see even as she leaned slightly into the unlit, darkening half of her face and braids.

The Seeker took no notice. "Studying your mark. Perhaps finding a cure for your condition. I do not know. It is for the Maker to decide."

Lahris raised a slender brow, huffing under her breath. _The Maker. False Gods will not aid me now, only Dirthamen. Wherever he may be._

"You were correct in coming to Skyhold. Solas, an apostate like yourself, knows much about your people. Perhaps he can shed light on where you have failed."

"And he is willing to help us, Seeker? Even without payment?"

"That will be for him to decide. Though it seems he has an interest in you. It was he after all who asked the Inquisitor to spare your life."

"He did?" the young elf whispered, frowning down the hall. Such kindness from a pariah never boded well. Her fingers dug deeper into her robe, crinkling slender cuffs.

Just as she had expected, the atrium did indeed hoard more paintings, though the mosaics were far grander than she had imagined, joining into other blends of colour to depict four sections of divided history. Her focus laid upon the first: a confusing display of variants of amber and golden paints, one that depicted an orb surrounded by eyes with a beam of light striking the pinnacle of a mountain peak. The second was far more interesting, depicting a silver claymore striking the heart of the fresco with a starburst eye, the sigil of the Inquisition, fixed along the rain-guard. Four wolves howled around it, and she found herself tracing the outline of the fur with her fingers, circling the paws in the air.

The third and fourth paintings had her tilting her head and pulling stray locks of auburn behind pointed ears. Both displayed shadowed knights though the third painting took place in a tower bathed in moonstone, reminding her of elder castles humans had first erected from mountain rock. In the corner beneath the armour was the sigil of the Templar Order: a long navy sword flaring in bolts of magic. Yet the fourth was not so. Magic was not resembled in a way to represent confinement but rather unleashed ruefully from cupped hands.

Lahris frowned, stepping closer to the wall. She pressed her ear against the fresco, listened for any sound. There was none. When she stepped away, she saw that it had changed only slightly. It appeared familiar. The shape of the knight was straight, regal, and she found that he was not actually a knight but a mage, draped in a cloak of black with only a mask of ashen grey to differentiate his body from his face. It was the shoulders that caught her attention: broad and flat, like waiting for twin crows to purchase on the pauldrons.

 _Dirthaman?_

"Interesting, would you not say?" asked an elf from behind her, cupping slender hands behind a striped tunic of white and green; the ends speckled in oils. "I take pride in my work, but still there are parts I would wish to alter."

Lahris gave a small nod, lightly folding her arms. Her heart ached upon the fourth fresco. She had to close her eyes to prevent tears from surfacing.

"Do you paint?"

She smiled, shaking her head. She slowly turned, under skirts twisting along her legs, to find the painter staring up at his piece. His pale, thin lips gaunted his cheekbones into sharp points with a less than amused sideward scowl. Yet in some way, it was somewhat handsome. He was bald as well, reflecting looming sconcelight, yet though to many it may have appeared humours witnessing such a sight, she found it surprising. There were not many bald elves in the Dalish. They prided their hair just as they prided their bows and dirks, twisting knots and braids into the ends, fixing twigs and leaves into the roots. Yet there was an elf before her cleanly shaven. Her smile broadened, teeth nipping her bottom lip.

"Solas," Seeker Pentaghast announced, halting by his side.

The painter nodded. "Seeker, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Seeker Pentaghast motioned to Jaras and Lahris with a half-hearted gesture. "Have you spoken with the Inquisitor? I am sure you were present in the hearing. As I am sure you know of these two."

Solas analysed the two elves approvingly, his eyes of grey sifting between them in a handful of glances. Then, his focus came to rest upon Lahris and his wry smile lifted. "Ah, I feared you would not survive the Inquisitor's judgement. But it appears I was mistaken," he confessed, lightly bowing. "I am Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live."

Lahris gave a small nod, quiet and polite.

He raised a brow at the gesture. "Do you not speak?"

There was gentleness in her smile, a softness in her voice when she spoke, "Little, unless I must."

"I see. I too prefer the company of silence when time affords me. It is sometimes wise to allow the world to flow around you rather than be drowned by it."

"Yes," she whispered in surprise. "That is exactly how I feel."

"Then I am glad to find another who appreciates the sentiment. But alas, we find ourselves here. If there is anything I may be of help in, you need only ask."

"I will leave you two to talk," Seeker Pentergast said, stepping back from the elves. "I trust I can leave them in your care, Solas?"

"I do not see why not."

"Good. Remember, the Inquisition is always watching."

"Always," Lahris mumbled glumly, catching the shadow of the Seeker's disappearance. She stared down at her bare feet, chewing her bottom lip. It seemed she was left under the care of the painter, who would inevitably report on everything in the meeting. One way or another, the Inquisitor would hear of it. Only half truths would be necessary now.

"Where you were the one who prevented my magic from spreading when I first arrived?" she asked hesitantly, peeking up from the breaks in her hair to see the painter nod.

"I did. If I hadn't, I have no doubt that very few would still be alive. I do apologise for any discomfort it may have caused."

"Then you know how dangerous this magic can be. Do you know much about this type of magic?"

"No, I fear not. I studied your mark the best I could under the circumstances, but it was not long enough to gain a full understanding. Merely a few hypotheses. Would you be able to tell me the characteristics of your magic, the parts that makes it so unique? It may narrow my search while in the Fade."

Her ears pricked. "In the Fade? As a… Dreamer?"

"Indeed," he replied, straightening his back. "Though I know the subject is frowned upon by the Dalish. I suppose that is understandable. The elves do not take kindly to opposition in their beliefs."

"Yet you are an elf."

He smirked slyly. "A different kind of elf, yes. I do not believe that acts of kinship must inherently lead to identical beliefs. I am an apostate after all, and doubt the Dalish would welcome my philosophy."

"Then you are wrong, _Hahren_. For the Dalish have sought you out. Jaras and I have nowhere else to turn."

The gaze of the apostate softened and he glanced between the two in his care with a new-found pity. "It would be rude of me to ignore you, and by the wise council of the Inquisitor, I suppose I am endeavoured to provide assistance even if it were against my better wishes. Please, sit. Tell me about the magical artifact you uncovered."

In the centre of the atrium lay two armchairs by an escritoire, one that held a variety of tomes, scrolls and parchment. As Solas began to settle within the first, and she in the second, she felt the presence of a hand on her shoulder, tight but not painful.

"Da'mi," Jaras whispered, lowering his mouth to the shell of her ear. "I'm not sure this is the best course of action."

"Is there a problem?" Solas asked, leaning back in his chair.

"Aye, actually there is." Lahris reached out to take the hand of her friend, but he wafted her touch aside."We've been through many scholars claiming to know magic, lad. We've been to wisemen, mages, healers, Chantry clerics, even our own Keeper never knew what was causing her to go into fits. And now we're with an apostate who can just as easily take the shard and lie to the Lord of Skyhold and get us imprisoned for life! Hanged even. We need reassurance that you know what you're doing, that she isn't going to be put in danger for no reason other than to cure her. You hear?"

Solas drew his hands up, connecting the points of his forefingers and thumbs together. "I'm afraid I can provide no such reassurance. I can try to gain an understanding of the magic, perhaps find a way to subdue it, but I cannot promise that she will be safe. You brought her to an organisation that holds the very idea of magic as abhorrent. You must have known that Templars had been assigned to the Inquisition after the battle with the rebel mages. I am sorry, but she is an apostate and if I cannot even confirm my own safety once this war is over, how am I to do the same for her?"

Lahris listened to the conversation with eyes soft with tiredness, her auburn hair tousled and wariness seeping into her very bones. She had heard this play a thousand times since her curse, knew no other way for the strings to be rung. The painter was her last chance. It was their last chance. She sensed, deep down, that her friend knew that to be true. Yet he just did not wish to believe it.

Lahris slipped a hand into her satchel, taking from the confines an ashen rock with a violet shell, wrapped in a layer of frayed cloth. She stared at the surface for a moment, spied traces of energy humming from within. Then, she placed it on the side of the escritoire, careful not to touch the edges.

Solas learned ever-so-slightly forward.

"This shard of rock is the artifact we originally found in Fereldan. We know it is ancient by the runes escribed into the surface. I'm quite unsure on what to tell. It feels… connected to me. I dare not part from it for even a moment. We tried once, leaving it in the forest by the aravels but I soon reclaimed it. I felt lost without it, as if I left a part of myself. But touching it burns my skin."

"We have no choice but to trust him, Jaras." Lahris reached out with her hand once more, to which he finally took, squeezing her fingers tight.

The way he looked at her, stern with a worrisome scowl, hurt her heart. She knew he trusted her no matter her decision and that her words rung with truth. She was to die if they did not at least consider it.

Solas inspected the shard from a distance, cupping his pointed chin with his left hand. He then hovered it over the surface, closing his eyes and calming his face, as if hoping to sense the foreign magic. Lahris tried to relax, but she felt her mind begin to unsettle. She fidgeted in her chair, tapped the end of the armrests. Only when the painter had removed his hand did she finally take in a deep breath and calm herself.

Solas glanced between her and the shard; a curious glint drifted through his grey eyes. The young elf was not sure why, but she sensed a hope kindling within him, one that had too begun in her. "I will help you."

Lahris blinked. "Just like that? You do not want payment?"

He pulled back, offended. "It is not often I sell my arts as a mercenary, _Da'len_. You intrigue me. For now, the Inquisitor has no need of me and I'm sure this will be time not wasted. May I keep the artifact in my possession? At least to study it."

Dread lurched in her chest at the mere mention of being parted and she quickly shook her head. "No. Like I said, I dare not be parted from it." She took the shard and folded it back within her satchel. "To examine the shard I must be there or we do not work together."

To her surprise, Solas nodded. "If that is what you wish. But for now I have much to ponder and I'm sure the Seeker will be willing to show you the other areas Skyhold has to offer."

Lahris frowned at the abruptness of his farewell, but rose from the armchair in grace either way. She and Jarus had just parted the shadows towards the doorway when the apostate called out, "I never did get your name."

The young elf parted from the hall, her hair whispering softly over her shoulders like a flurry of dry autumn leaves. Her nails cut into the wall corner she held, wariness creasing her brows. In the end she told the truth. " _Emma Lahris Elgar'shiral, Hahren_."

His ears pricked at the use of the elvhen tongue, surprise more than evident. "You speak the ancient tongue?"

"The Dalish were very good tutors, and I was an eager student."

"Then you are Dalish?"

She shook her head, a stray braid falling past her ear. "Apart of their culture, yes, but I am not one of them."

His smile was small, taking comfort, she supposed, in that knowledge. When he returned to the parchments on his escritoire she suspected that was all he had to say, only when the doorway finally closed, she lastly heard thus, "A pleasure, Lahris Elgar'shiral."


	5. Midnight Explorations

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Five: Midnight Explorations

She heard him rise the stairway of her tower, one sluggish boot at a time. The beats of sanded limestone coated in a year's frost. The clash of a steel sheathe clattering against the walls. The hagged breath of a man succumbing to exhaustion, panting as needly as a bear waking from a long winter slumber. All noise resonated through the tower to centre in her chamber, as if sound itself wished to aid in her escape.

She imagined a pale face stricken in rose-tinted cheeks; a scraggly beard freckled in snowflakes; a whineskin dripping at the belt. There was a thunderous clap when he landed into the nearest chair by her door, coaxed tired eyes with a weather-worn glove and settled in for another quiet night.

She overheard the other guardsmen call him Ser Castillon, handsome by any means a human could be, yet who was young enough to fall asleep at his post without a thought on the consequences. He was new, had no wife or babe in a cradle. Perhaps he had family in Orlais, Val Royeaux maybe: a mother and father tending merchant stalls and attending extravagant parties for the local lords. She remembered how her own family had been as such, thought on his existence, gave way to fantasy when the sun set passed her window. In the end, however, she, like him, never bothered to think on the consequences of her choice, only what it could lead to.

She closed her eyes and wound her finger around the lock in her door twice, mumbling words in a tongue forgotten that not even the crows could understand. Incantations tempted the inner mechanisms to sleep, to freeze, to harden. Slivers of blue embraced the blackened iron, hummed into the metal, caused ice to freckle and expand upon it until the entirety had been solidified, the glassy surface reflecting a spectre of what she was.

 _Perhaps this will work a third time,_ she thought, taking a pin from her gown and fixing it into the hole.

She pressed her ear against the door, tilted the pin with her fingers until she heard the mechanisms within begin to snap one by one. She then hooked the end onto an inner spring and whipped her hand left. The lock shattered instantly.

The young elf smiled, sewed her pin back into her gown, rose to her feet and gently snapped the latch down, parting the door with a creak of old hinges. She paused, slipping into the corridor to find Ser Castillon had indeed fallen asleep with a pouch of wine dripping from his waistbelt. Gingerly, she crept out, one dainty step at a time, closed the door behind her and slipped down the stairway, halting at each turn to check another guard hadn't come her way.

By the third turn she had come upon the final door and eagerly pushed it aside. The breath of winter instantly brought her body to a standstill. But it was not just the cold that inhibited her attempt to flee. There was a vision on the horizon, one she had not seen even when she was forced to meet the Inquisitor at court, or during the day when the horizon looked like valleys merged together under a pink blanket.

What she saw was the Breach. She knew of it, as had all in Thedas when the heavens parted in shamrock green, presenting a swirling vortex of pulsing cloud causing the entire world to scamper in fear. She remembered witnessing the tears in Fereldan when demons poured from the forests, towering upon the Dalish like a sea of evil. She remembered the fires, the cries, the dead floating in the river, tainting it in blood.

Lahris shuddered, hugging herself through the evening wind.

That had been a year ago and still the Breach appeared as menacing as it had when it first ripped the sky. _The Veil that tore the Fade. If only the mortals knew that the Veil had not always existed. Perhaps the world would have been different. Perhaps I would have been different._

She sighed, peering down upon Skyhold in newfound curiosity. From above the fortress did not seem quite as grand, somewhat smaller than what she had expected, though she supposed seeing the outer walls and inner courtyard looming down upon first sight did spark an awe-inspired presence.

Lahris gazed further south, her ears twitching at a deep bellow that howled from the straw-roofed stables farther down the way. But the cry was familiar, and her ears drooped beneath her hood, instantly recalling whom the wail belonged to. She flew down the steps of the parapet walk and into the courtyard, slipping into white-stricken veld, ice and rubble.

Even from a distance the paddock gates rattled from within the stable, under war with the hooves of a creature battling for freedom. Two elven servants manned the outer doors after hauling a thick beam of oak across the iron supports in the hope of subduing it. Yet the creature continued to ram the gates, shattering the wood and wailing through the night, deep and guttural, like a lion.

"Crazy beast, keep down in there I say!" one of the servants yelled, whacking the gate with a thick fist. "See, and you wonder why I don't follow my cousin's doing in joinin' the savages out there in the wilds. Nothin' but mad they are."

"Isn't as bad as some of the Inquisitor's mounts," grunted the other, skinny and shaken, falling back from the stables with his arm hung limp. "Did you see the last one he captured from the wastes? Andraste's mercy, the thing's like a dragon. All teeth and eyes. Scratched my arm the other night. The healers say it'll never fully heal."

"Aye, saw that one when it first came in. Hell of a temper on it, but at least it isn't as bad tempered as that ram in there. Should have the guards put it down, put it out of its misery."

The other servant frowned, moving out towards the barracks. "I wouldn't go that far. Might be scared is all. Cannot blame it from being away from its master…"

Lahris peeked out from behind a well, finding the servants disappearing into the distance. Once the door to the barracks closed, she crept out on her hands and knees, crawling through the snow, feeling the cold string her legs and dampen her skirts. The paddock gates continued to be hammered, so much so that a bolt flew from one of the hinges. It was as if the beast rebelled with the entirety of its strength, uncaring if it hurt itself so long as it was free.

Only one creature could be so stubborn.

Lahris rose to her feet and pressed her hand against the wood, hearing the grunts of a wary halla within. "Assan?" she whispered, her tone as soft as the snow.

The stable fell silent. "Assan," she said again, sighing in relief. "Shhh, I'm here. Just, stay still."

Her gaze swept across the courtyard, searching for a way to cut the beam or aid in freeing it from the supports. Ice magic would have had little effect on wood, and burning it would only alert the Inquisition. That was when she saw it: a crack in the sideward wall, small but the wood around appeared soft, hollow. Bending down, she turned on her heel and kicked the timber around it, again and again, until the side wall cracked and a chunk of it fell into the stables.

Lahris crouched, hugging her skirts to her chest before slipping through the crack, finding the stables within dark and dry. Hay tickled the underside of her feet, made her toes curl and twitch. Though the inside was consumed in shadow, parted by stray shafts of moonlight seeping through the straw like tiny stars, the stable was clear enough for her to spy the outline of her halla, raised upon four legs, stilted by hooves the height of her hands while the spiral pattern of his antlers curved back from his crown, lightly scraping the upper beams.

There was a reason he was chosen out of the herd she had found him in. A scrawny doe orphaned by his mother, a baby that would not ween even from the medicine of the clan wise-mother. She remembered the memory well, felt tears threaten to fall at the thought. But then he had grown into a robust, sturdy beast, one with fur as white as snow-kissed cloud, who towered over the other halla in his herd, who was strong enough to carry both her and others across vast lands both familiar and foreign. Her friend. Her companion, who had been away from her for days, perhaps not knowing if she were alive or dead.

She reached out with her hand, feeling his breath frost the air. "Ir abelas, falon. I am here. You do not need to fear anymore. I promise you."

She approached him slowly, slightly bowed, her heart battering against her chest, worry twitching her fingers. Yet after a moment he lowered his snout, sniffed her hand. The fright in his eyes softened and he bowed his neck, his jaw lightly resting in her open palm. He purred, a deep rumble in the depth of his chest. And she knew.

He forgave her.

"Nothing will happen to you," she promised, threading her hands into his mane. "Be patient, Assan. You will see the grassland of Fereldan again one day, I promise you. But we have to stay here. It isn't safe out there for us. I hope you can understand that."

Halla were known for their intelligence amongst the Dalish, many far more capable of being trained than a mutt on a leash. They were intelligent enough to escape traps set my hunters, shy from humans but stray towards Dalish. But even she was surprised to see him settle in his den of hay, quiet and complacent, as if he did understand. He even scraped his hoof against the straw, beckoning her to stay with him.

Lahris smiled, shaking her head. "I cannot. Not now, at least. Stay put, be good to the shemlen while I am away. Please."

Assan raised his head from the ground, ears tipping back. "Goodnight, Assan," she bayed before crawling back out through the stable nook, folding layer upon layer of snow over the sideward wall until it was entirely concealed.

She then turned her focus towards the Keep and followed a path of melted stones and shivering puddles up to approach its grand auburn doors. To say she was surprised to find no guardsman patrolling the stairway was an understatement. She looked in all manner of directions, from the floating fireflies on the ramparts to the glints of silver guarding the front gate. When she was sure she hadn't been noticed, she grasped the iron torc and dug her heels into the stone, cranking the old hinges with an unsteady groan.

Her slim form slipped into the gap like a hare in a burrow. She scurried through the long throne hall that in the depths of night only seemed more foreboding, the high arched panes allowing the waxen light of the moon to shine unhindered. It may have lacked the courtiers, jesters and noblemen, even the Lord of Skyhold himself that reigned during the day, but the coal in the hearths still burned in warm black ash, goblets remained tall and full on trestle tables, so much so that she could even spy the ceiling in the surfaces. And though the throne itself was empty, the very shape of the sceptres were angled in such a way that it was as if the Inquisitor's spirit still lay claim to it; power and authority instilling an uneasy wariness into her gut that made her feel sick.

 _You will be made tranquil, left to serve the Inquisition until the end of yours days…_

She did not tarry within any longer. She scampered into the atrium, or rotunda as others had taken to calling it. It was there that she paused in her wandering to come across the fresco she thought so much of for many nights. The one of the long, dark mage depicted in subtle clarity. The sconces in the tower swayed in its grace, causing the mask of the mage to adjust with the shadow, alternating between two people, two identities: light and dark, black and grey. _Dirthamen and Falon'Din._

Lahris raised her hand and closed her eyes, attempting to feel the waver of energy around her that seemed to be part of Skyhold's very foundations.

Her mind silenced. Her senses attuned to her surroundings. Birds flittered in cages from above, wax dripped from ivory palettes, tiny spinnerets threaded silk into frosted glass. There was even the smell of old tomes newly opened. She sensed - _knew_ \- all. All in the tower were one: one life, one energy, one feeling, one smell, one sound, each clinging to the fabric of old magic, even if it was as little as borrowing air to breathe.

She imagined herself reaching out to that magic, threading her fingers into the strings, plucking the cords into a melody of her own choosing, one that would open the heart of its source. She felt the brush of the canvas, the rough texture of the fresco even though it was just out of reach. She smelt the paint as if it was dew on grass, tasted the sweetness of the oils, felt the hint of pride in the strokes as if it were her own hands creating the piece. Then, the texture twisted, from one of cold and prickly paint to warmth and heat and flesh. And breath, as musty as old parchment, as fresh as evergreen mint.

The lids on her eyes creased, not daring not see or even acknowledge what lay in front of her. _There is nothing but wall,_ she reminded herself, biting her bottom lip. _It is a test, a lie, deceit._

 _But am **I**?_

In her mind she sensed another peering into her thoughts, paralysing her body, stilling her hand in the air. Whispers seeded into her ears like a song from a voice both clear and haunting, raspy and sweet, like the voice of a grandfather, one who had seen all the years of the world and still found it beautiful.

She attempted to resist, tried to pull her hand back when she felt the warmth of his breath tickle her fingertips. With such gentleness, such care, each whisper could only coax her forward, releasing tension from her shoulders, fogging her mind into further disquiet until even her own rationality had been smothered. For who could resist the temptation of an elder, so full of wisdom and knowledge? Only the truly ignorant could ignore such a call.

She could only give in.

 _La'var ar dirtha, lasa renan ver ma. In theneras ar ame mar. In elgar ma ane emma. Harmin, da'len. Harmin, dal'len. Sul ar ame garal._

Her feet begun to rock to the whispers, seducing her into the depths of tiredness to eventual slumber. Her hand touched another, strong, firm, wrinkled. A foot stepped forward, the other lost balance. She sagged into the arms of another, held so softly that she might shatter. Her fingers loosely gripped his vest, her inner self trying in vain to concentrate on the coarse wool in the hope of not fading forever.

Another voice spoke amongst the song: lighter, realer, concerned. She groaned in his hold, curling her hands around his waist and digging her fingers into his back, fighting for release. The whispers in her mind begun to drift as realness grew. Weakness faded from her body. The whispers faded from her ears, then all together disappeared.

Lahris gasped, inhaling the scent of the new when the magic of old still fought to drown her.

She opened her eyes, finding white and green thread smothering her nose and cheeks. For a moment she listened to the heartbeat, vibrant against her left ear. Rising and falling a lot slower than her own. Fingers raked her hair, curled in the braids, stroked strands behind her other ear. The touch was foreign but soothing. In the end it comforted her. She even smiled, slightly, to herself, for longing had begun to hurt her chest.

"Are you alright, _lethallan_?" her saviour asked, peering down upon the girl in his arms in concern.

When she looked up, she found grey eyes staring back, held upon a long proud face, yet as sharp as a knewly whet blade. "Solas?"

The painter smiled faintly, halting the roam of his fingers, softening his hold on her back. His lips were moist, his neck flushed above his collar. _A blush? Or worry?_

Lahris glanced around, finding sunlight cresting the panes above. "How long was I asleep?"

"Many hours, I suspect. I found you by the wall, you seemed…"

"I'm fine," she quickly said, rubbing a hand over her brow. "I… sometimes walk at night, it helps to concentrate and sift through my thoughts. I was admiring your painting when I must have fallen asleep. The last few days have been a lot for me. Ir abelas, if I frightened you."

"Think nothing of it," he said, aiding her to a stand. "Might I ask how you feel now? You seemed to be under a lot of duress."

"It was just a nightmare. Skyhold is old, I think, and spirits sometimes find amusement in tormenting me. They sometimes surface memories I would rather forgotten, but I will endure. I think it has something to do with the magic inside of me, but I suppose every mage is tempted by demons at some point."

Solas inclined his head, releasing her from his hold. Lahris attempted to walk, only to fall back into his arms. "My legs?"

"Come, _lethallan_ , sit."

Holding her by the waist, Solas aided her into a chair, then begun to clear tomes and parchment from his escritoire. "I'm afraid I wasn't expecting company, especially so early in the morning. Would you care for something to eat? I could procure something from the kitchens, or perhaps you would like tea to shake the dreams from your mind? I detest the stuff myself, but I find that sometimes it is a necessary vice."

Lahris smiled, lightly shaking her head. "Mas serannas, but no. I think I will be quite alright."

He nodded, returning to his own armchair opposite her. He seemed to wish to discuss her situation further. Perhaps on how she managed to leave her tower without an escort, or if her dreams held a relation to the magic coursing through her veins. Yet before he had a chance to ask, she had taken notice of his fresco once more and quietly asked, "That painting, it is familiar to me. Will you tell me the story behind it?"

The painter leaned back in his chair, gazing upon the wall rather absentmindedly. "Certainly. I suppose you have heard the stories of the Inquisitor? Brave tales of war and heroism? Perhaps of him arriving to battles on a griffin under Andraste's light. It is up to you. Do you wish the truth, or a false story?"

Lahris thought on the choice for a moment, twisting the ends of her hair. "Is the Inquisitor that vain?"

Solas shrugged. "Perhaps. He is the Herald of Andraste after all, whatever the truth, and to some people such stories are to be believed. But that is all people in power are, _lethallan_. Simple men with stories warped by faith."

"Then I would like your truth, hahren. I do enjoy stories, but with this one, I would like to know what really happened."

"As you wish. I'm sure you have heard of the Grey Wardens."

"Never. Who are they, exactly?"

"I can't say I'm surprised if you grew up with the Dalish. Very few elves even remember the darkspawn, save for stories. The Grey Wardens are an old order of humans that predate most organisations to this day, but that does not make them noble. They're the only order known to fight the darkspawn and successfully prevent the Blight from taking over the world."

He sighed, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "But in this they are flawed. The Wardens will do anything to stop the Blight. There is much to admire in that commitment, but much to be wary about as well. To many, they will be heroic. To me, well, I have known them long enough to have little interest in them. They are a necessity, but are foolish in the way they handle matters."

He seemed to notice the judgment that fell from his lips and instantly frowned. "I apologise. You didn't come for a lecture, and I didn't mean to…" he sighed. "We had a matter that involved them. The Inquisitor and I worked with them to prevent Corypheus from gaining further power. In doing what we did, we learned much about the Inquisitor, but I'm afraid the entire affair was utterly dull, and not one that would interest you."

Lahris straightened in her chair. "But I would like to know more, hahren."

He smiled wryly. "I know, but it isn't one I'm willing to share. I'm sorry."

Lahris frowned down at her lap, knowing that she should not urge more information out of the painter, especially not information that he was unwilling to give, but she also craved more understanding just as a starving halla craved fresh grass in the winter. "Could you at least explain what each part of your painting means?"

"That I could do, yes. Which particular part interests you?"

 _The likeness of Dirthamen._ "The mage holding the orb. Who is he? What power does he wield?"

"That would be Corypheus. He held considerable influence in the matters we had in the Western Approach. It seems he has a hand in everything we come across now."

 _Except me_ , the younger elf thought, remembering her master and the shard. She reached down into her satchel, feeling the wrapped rock dig into the pads of her fingers and thumb. It was a good thing she had come to the Inquisition rather than risk the temptations of this Corypheus. Not even her master would have been foolish to share power with another. At least, in that regard, she knew she was safe to some extent. She only needed to watch the Inquisitor closely, and his people even closer.

"And your painting, hahren. How did you learn to paint like that? I haven't seen paintings like that since," _before the war,_ "the temple I found the shard in. It was from the ancient elvhen, yes? I did not think that any elf knew how to recreate it. Even the Dalish have their cave paintings and they are nothing like yours."

Solas raised his eyes at the mention, brows high in surprise. "I learned this and a great deal of other things while journeying in the Fade. Some secrets, even that of the elvhen, can be found if one knows where to look. I happened upon one such sight when I was younger, dreaming in a cave far from the reaches of my village. In my sleep, I found a painter, young it would seem by mere appearance, but in the tremble of his hands and the wisdom in his eyes, it was obvious that he was ancient. He used pigment and plaster in mastery. Some of the arts he depicted will sadly always be lost to time, and my works are poor compared to such lost treasures. All I can hope is to reinact them and give some sense of the People back to the world, even if their glory is lost."

"That's quite noble, Solas."

His smile widened, as if he was not used to compliments. _If he is a lone apostate, he would not be._ "Thank you. I know not many will see it as so but, to know that some arts can be recovered gives me hope that someday things will be better."

Lahris parted her lips to speak, but found no words could describe the awe she felt. She took comfort in his words, even though he would never know how truly glad she was to know that at least some of her past may yet be recovered. Perhaps, if there were more like Solas in the world, she and her people would have stood a chance.

Lahris quietly rose from her chair, steadying her hands against the armrests as her legs begun to regain feeling. Solas, too, rose from his, holding his arms out just in case she fell again. "I believe my guard might be wondering where I am. I better leave before he tells his commander, though I'm sure you will more than likely tell the Seeker what happened. I, thank you for this morning, hahren. It was nice."

She raised a hand to which he took, grasping her other arm and aiding her to a stand. "As have I, _lethallan_."

"May I come and see you again sometime, not just in regards to my condition?" she asked, shying away. The doorway was close when she peaked over her shoulder for an answer. "You are nice company to be in."

He nodded, smiling more brightly than usual. "I would like that."

She left the rotunda just as the last rays of dawn began to rise over the crest of the Frostback Mountains. Her guard remained asleep in her tower until noon. Yet as noon settled to eve, when eve drifted into night, the young elf was left pondering on the familiarity of the fresco and the words that poured from its skin. That night she dreampt of red hearts burning in the snow, of faces shimmering in glass, all the while wisemen whispered over and over in her ears…

 _La'var ar dirtha, lasa renan ver ma. In theneras ar ame mar. In elgar ma ane emma. Harmin, da'len. Harmin, dal'len. Sul ar ame garal._

As I speak, let my voice take you. In dream, I am yours. In spirit, you are mine. Rest, my child. Rest, my child. For **I** am coming.

...

I'm really enjoying writing this fic and I hope you are all enjoying this as well. Thank you for reading so far, more chapters will be coming soon but until then, thanks for reading : feel free to leave a comment, I love knowing what people think


	6. Shards & Magic

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Six: Shards & Magic

"Tell me about the Fade," the young elf insisted, perched upon the rest of an armchair, one leg elegantly crossed over the other. In her lap was a tome, faded in a centuries dust with several pages blotted in smudged ink. _An Enchanter's Memoir on Tarasyl'an Te'las._ Some of it was comparable to her own past, other chapters were as fictitious as the Dalish vallaslin, yet still most were noteworthy.

"Hmm?" the apostate mumbled, grazing the outer casing of her shard with his thumb. He had rested in his own armchair since noon, had scrolled through frayed parchment and half-burnt scrolls in search of any hint into the origin of the artifact. By his deepening scowl, it seemed that none had born fruit. "Yes, what would you like to know?"

Lahris raised a shoulder to her neck, studying the image of a temple depicted in charcoal. The author had taken to calling it _Tarasyl'an Te'las._ The Place Where The Sky Was Held Back. In the common tongue, Skyhold. Yet the depiction held too many straight towers to be truly of elvhen make. The spires were not spherical or spiral but sleek and straight, conical like the rooves of the present. The depiction itself was flawed, but the mention of elvhen history in Tarasyl'an Te'las made sense to her. _The old magic._

"I thought dreamers were extinct in this part of Thedas," she said, scrolling to another page. "Either made tranquil by the Templars or driven mad by demons. I read about them, you know, in tomes the Dalish collected. Honestly, mostly what I know of this world is from them and their teachings."

"I'm surprised to hear the Dalish have any knowledge that isn't false stories," he replied, his tone languid. "What a rare find indeed. Perhaps we should plant a tree to commemorate something they got right."

"They are not all terrible, _hahren_. Why are you so against them? Is it the aravels? Do you get ill from riding them?"

"It's not that I get ill from-" he sighed, rubbing his temples. "They are children, acting and reacting stories heard wrongly a thousand times. While they pass on tales, mangling stories, I walk the Fade. I have seen things they have not, known things that would only draw their stories into question. Like children, they are too ignorant to see their mistakes."

Lahris pressed her tome to a close, leaning over the edge of her armchair with her elbows on her knee. Her eyes were less kind now, glinting in curiosity; emerald kissed by daylight. "Tell me how that would happen, then. What can you find in the Fade that the Dalish would not understand?"

"For one, the Dalish strive to remember Halamshiral. But Halamshiral was merely a fumbling attempt to recreate a forgotten land. Another thing the Dalish got wrong, I'm afraid, but I assume Arlathan was so far before their time that they have forgotten almost the entirety of its existence. Another treasure misplaced. Elvhenan was the empire, and Arlathan its greatest city. A place of magic and beauty, lost to time."

Reminiscence was a cruel temptress, just as he was cruel for reviving such dormant memories, intentional or not. Memories of forests carved from metals, leaves of twinkling jade and finely wrought blossom petals dripping in the dew of the rain; small iced droplets that not even the warmth of the sun could subdue. And a city sparkling on the horizon, tangled in a forest that rose above the clouds.

Her smile was shaken. It further saddened when her memories begun to drift, fade. "You have seen Elvhenan? How?"

"Through the Fade. It is the source of everything I have come to know. You may have heard tales of the ancient elves living in trees, imagine wooden ramps and Dalish aravels. Imagine instead spires of crystal entwining in the branches. Palaces floating among the clouds. Imagine beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing. This and more I have seen."

Lahris peaked down upon her hand to find four fingers curled along her tome bind and a thumb idly smoothing the pages. Her hand was supple, tanned, freckled and smooth. A true miracle that it remained unscarred unlike the rest of her. Yet even she could see the depths of age crinkling her knuckles.

It left her gut stale, raw. _Father promised me the stars, time eternal. And now I am slowly decaying, like the shemlen around me._

"Are you sure what you saw was true? I have only seen the Fade a few times but know not everything there is as it seems. Were the things you have seen truly real?" _If I extended my hand, could I touch the grass? Or embrace my father one last time?_

"Yes and no. The Fade is perception, a mirror of reality seen in the eyes of another, reflected by spirits. What I saw could have been many things: the memory of an ancient before the end of a war. The sight of a child happening upon Elvhenan for the very first time. All are real in the Fade, making what I saw the truest truth that can be discovered."

She looked away from him, vexed, disappointed. "If all opinions are real in the Fade, then should not a Dalish opinion on an event be true as well? If one dreamt of Elvhenan, of what it might have appeared, how would you know the difference if you have never seen it for yourself?"

Solas scowled, passing his hand over the shard. The surface glowed a faint hue, one that to many could be barely seen by the cream of the rotunda walls. But to elvhen kind, the shimmer was faintly noticeable when tilted a certain way, pale and cloudy - a spectral breath.

"It'd be a warped perception, not one that was truly free of false influence," he informed, taking a quill and lacing text into bare parchment. "You'd only understand if you walked the Fade as I, _lethallan_. Until you have done that, then what you know is merely speculation. I mean no offence."

"The Dalish have been good to me, though, cared for me as their own when I found myself in Fereldan. Some, I trust completely. They may be young in their ways but at least they are attempting to remember the world before. Is that not worth something at least?"

"The small traces of history they keep are nothing more than shards of false glass compared to the jewel that once was the People. Even the remnants they hold are small ounces of truth. It'd be better in the long run if they remembered nothing, rather than remember everything wrong."

"Not everything is wrong," she whispered, shaking the frustration from her mind. "But, you are right to your own thinking, I suppose. And I would like to see the things you see."

His lips twisted in a wry combination of curiosity and amusement. "You wish to see the Fade?"

"Is that possible?"

"It is. Anyone who can dream has the potential. In the days of old, all of the People had the gift. Mages use lyrium now to transverse the Fade. Dreamers simply have an innate ability that nature has not suppressed. If you are willing to learn, I could show you. You've shown the indomitable focus needed to survive your magic. Your time in the Fade shouldn't be too different. I must admit, I'm surprised to find it not yet dominated. Most in this world are too easily influenced to keep such a mindset, but not you."

"So, my focus could be dominated if I were to find the right person?" she asked, auburn locks falling across her shoulders, her head tilting quizzically.

The apostate coughed, stilling the quill in his hand. Upon the tips of his ears, a rosy tint dominated the pale. "Presumably. I-I had not thought on it. I imagine the sight would be… fascinating."

Lahris blinked innocently, her brows gradually creasing. _What about my question caused him to be darken like a new-plucked plum?_ And then she realised, cupping soft lips with her hand. _By Dirthamen_!

"Then, perhaps you will be my _hahren_ in many things, not just the Fade, Solas," she whispered, smiling. "This is so exciting."

He chuckled, returning to his parchment and quill. "You may reconsider that stance in time."

The rotunda gradually receded into quiet for the coming hours. Mages tarried to and from the library above, casting quiet incantations that left the musk of a spell, bitter and metallic, until mid-afternoon. Spies far higher then them, positioned on the third tier of the rotunda made just as much noise, tiptoeing crooked beams to catch crows fluttering in their cages. Their shadows crossed the lower walls like winged moths in a dance, sometimes enticing Lahris to peek up.

Every hour or so the elves were disturbed, but only by the occasional feather that floated down from the rookery above. Solas would pluck the stems from the floor and add them to a jar of varying plumage, a collection that had Lahris soothing her fingers over from time to time. A guilty pleasure, so to speak, while her mind drifted to other things.

At last, when the sunlight adopted an ochre tinge, casting away the darkness, and when both mages and spies left the tower for the evening, the two elves had come to a conclusion.

"This artifact is unlike anything I have ever seen," Solas muttered, shifting through text after text, scrolls piling upon scrolls. "I can confirm that it is elvhen in origin, but this is unlike the foci I have seen that channel the magic of our people. I remember during your trial you mentioned the artifact belonging to a God. What made you come to that conclusion?"

"The temple we were in was for one of the Gods. Dirthamen, I supposed by the statues of owls and twin crows."

Solas touched his chin, nodding. "Interesting."

"Is something wrong?"

"No, just humour me a moment." Solas raised the shard from the escritoire as carefully as a relic from an altar. The evening light played upon the surface dimly, yet when Solas touched the shine, it was as hard as glass. "Stand over there, if you would, by the door."

Lahris felt uneasy, her fingers unknowingly reaching out for the shard.

Solas drew his hand away, gesturing to the doorway with the other. "Please, _lethallan_. This is important."

She did not wish to. Each step she took felt as if a thread tying her spirit to the artifact grew thinner and thinner. It tugged on her heart like a hand squeezing the organ for every drop of blood. The further she drifted, the more unbearable the sensation became, almost painful.

By the doorframe she managed to steady herself, using it for support. The young elf hadn't noticed her held breath until she felt dizzy.

"I'm going to have to ask you to trust me," he said, passing his hand over the shard and closing his eyes.

Lahris watched intently. A wisp of magic drifted across his fingers, cloudy and faded like blue mist. As his hand curled over the artifact, something deep seemed to stir from within: a tremor that caused the dull black casing to shake and for the violet glass on top to glimmer, shine. The surface begun to undulate, slow like water, dreamlike. Then the apostate slammed his hand down upon the shard. The following moments disappeared from her mind.

One moment she was stood by the doorway observing his magic first-hand. The next moment half of the floor had been coated in frost. Her robes shimmered in beaded ice, her knees met red carpet. Her body lay hunched over folded arms, where held tightly to her chest was the artifact pulsing in a heather radiance.

Solas stood before her perplexed. Invisible waves of magic had carried her forward, blurred her for a short distance, but in that time she had managed to snatch the artifact from his hand and curl protectively over it by his feet. She did not speak, she scarcely moved. Only her breathes could be heard throughout the deathly hush. The heavy pants of a drowning maiden starving for air.

The young elf remained bowed before him; long tousled hair draped over her upper half like a widow's veil. Her arms had even taken a pinker tint under a coat of fresh frost, glinting in the rotunda like crystal, only far more fragile.

Solas slowly knelt on one knee, bringing a finger up to raise her chin. Her eyes briefly met his - a spiritual shine lighting them in ethereal lustre before dimming to her natural green. Her hands quivered in fear, tingled in old magic.

It felt wrong. It felt manipulated, twisted, evil. She wished to throw the shard to her feet and have it shatter into a trillion stars. The very thought had her lurching forward, lips parting to vomit, only for nothing to happen.

"I-I did not mean to, I'm unsure how I…" She felt sick, feverish. Tears slipped down her cheeks in silent surrender, yet she found no despair in them. Only relief. "Please, never do that again."

" _Ir abelas, da'len._ I never meant to cause you pain. It was selfish of me, but it was a necessary act." Even as the words left his lips, she saw his expression fall into dismay.

In another world, she would have hidden her pain. In another world, she would have learned from her past mistakes and never taken the word of another elf without suspicion. In another world, she would never have been at the behest of a ruin or a dead god's magic. Yet she was not in another world. She felt the ebb and flow of the old magic like cancer in her veins, one that could control her very body.

She sneered at the floor, wiped the tears away with her sleeve, hating her weakness. "Please tell me you gained something in what you did."

Solas nodded, gently taking her arm and aiding in her rise. "I did, though you may not like the answer."

Lahris shook his touch away, turning towards the escritoire and carefully returning the shard to its wrappings. A thought crossed her mind when her fingers lingered near the edge, crinkling the leather that once bound it. _It never burned my hand._

She eased away from it, finding the entire situation far too unnerving. "What did you do, Solas?"

"A simple spell, one I use in the Fade when searching for spirits. The spell searches for bodies of the ether, any magic that reflects the Fade and has consciousness. I theorised that the magic binding you to the artifact may have belonged originally to a spirit, as most magic in the time of Arlathan was. And, it seems I was correct."

Lahris inclined her head, warily taking a step closer to him. "Are you saying that there is a spirit trapped within the shard?"

"Precisely. Though I'm unsure of its purpose."

"Does the purpose matter? By the ancestors, it is attempting to possess me! That's why I feel a part of myself disappear each time the mark grows." Lahris leaned against the escritoire, taking in a few deep breaths. "I'm losing myself."

"I doubt it is that simple, _da'len_. See how the artifact emits light? When I first held it, it was dormant. Your touch has awoken it. The essence feels stronger here. It is indisputable. You are tied to it. For why or how long remains to be seen."

Solas passed his hand over the surface one last time, his lips pursing questionably. "There is a life inside, _lethallan_. Intelligent life that for all we know might be able to hear this very conversation. You came to its aid. It sought protection from you. And you reacted."

"Without knowing."

"Self-preservation is far stronger than you know. The artifact saw me as a threat. It called out to the only known source it had that could defend it. You. I do not believe it wishes to possess you. I believe it may be trapped, just as you are to it. Otherwise, I doubt you would still be here."

Lahris frowned, laying a hand on her hip. "What are you trying to say, Solas?"

"Spirits may wish to join the living, but a demon is that wish gone wrong. If it were a demon, if its purpose had been twisted, it would have possessed you the moment it had the chance. Yet, even though your magic has grown, it remains locked. The connection is obviously strong, yet you have not been possessed. I would find comfort in that. You have no reason to fear the spirit inside."

"And nearly baying Falon'Din greetings in the Fade was not enough?"

"I never said the connection didn't have its risks. It may be an imperfect balance. But for now, the spirit poses no threat to you. It might be your fear that causes the artifact to react in such a way."

 _Fear?_ she wondered, searching the floor for answers. _Could it have been fear? It has not hurt me in the last few days._ "Then I should just accept it as a part of me?"

"Yes, for now. Until I can monitor the affects more closely, this is all I can suggest."

Her hand dug deeper into her hipbone. She turned away from the apostate, rubbing the wariness from her brow. _So close yet so far_. "I will consider it, _hahren_."

The idea of fleeing into the throne hall despite the risk of gawking courtiers murmuring behind her back, had become ever-more appealing. "I should find Jaras. Why he wished to take my place in the Inquisitor's interrogation I still do not know."

"The Inquisitor likes to pretend he is mightier than most, but he hasn't the stomach for true heresy. You never saw the Conclave, or the downfall of Haven. I do not condone his actions, but I can sympathise with them. I'm sure your friend will be fine, _lethallan_."

The oaken doors barring the throne hall to the rotunda parted hastily to reveal one of the Inquisition's own strolling through. From his thigh, a long sword swung, while one hand lay perched on the lion-headed pommel. The other strayed behind his back.

Clean-shaven under a pointed helm, a beard crusted in snow and a wine skin at his belt. _Ser Castillon?_

"Messere Solas," the guardsman began, his speech bastard Orlesian flavoured heavily with flutters of Antiva. Lahris had to repeat such words in her mind to understand. Even to her people accents were so rarely thick. "I must interject at once. The Inquisitor has ordered the prisoner to come with me to the bailey. As 'ave you."

Solas quirked a curious brow. "Oh? Whatever for?"

"Important matters, messere. You are to bring any belongings you may wish for the journey ahead."

Lahris cradled her throat. "Journey? We are to leave Skyhold?"

"One of our villages was attacked to the east, serah. The Inquisitor has already sent men to the parameter, but he wishes you both to attend. At once, he said. We must not tarry."

It was Solas who spoke next, shoulders hunched over his desk and hands idly grazing wet papers. "How peculiar. Of course we wouldn't want to keep the Inquisitor waiting. The very heavens may split anew."

The young elf frowned. _Could the Inquisitor truly reopen the skies, or was that sarcasm?_

Lahris looked doubtful. An attack to the east would not bode well for any organisation, but there were only a few reasons as to why she was needed. She shuddered in knowing what that could mean. "Must I come along? Surely I would be safer and less harmful here in Skyhold? I-I could flee when you peer away. I would be a risk, one you do not need. I would rather be in my tower under lock and key."

By the agitation in her guard she knew she seemed suspicious. Even Solas had raised a brow at the mention of her stay, for surely any prisoner would leap at the chance to leave their walls behind.

"He said you might act like that, serah." Ser Castillon quickly grabbed her arms, clanking iron onto her wrists. Lahris gasped, curling her hands and letting forth a spell that hit his chest in a pang of white.

Ser Castillon groaned, curling into his breastplate - ice glistening against the chain mail collar. Lahris attempted to flee, but the shackles were too heavy on her fists, weighing them down to her waist.

Solas strode forward, blocking the path back to the throne hall. "Is this really necessary?"

Ser Castillon flexed the fingers of his sword arm, not bothering to look at the elf as he hauled her tall by her chains. "Oui, of course! Orders are orders, messere. Meet us in the bailey as soon as you are able. Horses have already been drawn for the road."

There was ire in Solas, concealed by a stern face comparable to that of stone. Lahris could sense it settle in the air as if it were her own.

In the end, he returned the artifact to her satchel and slipped it over her shoulder, sympathising with the young elf by a small quirk of his lips. "I will see you in the courtyard," he whispered softly, allowing the two to part freely.

The last she saw was a long black wolf howling along the fresco behind him.


	7. Parting Wishes

.

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Seven: Parting Wishes

Assan relished the open roads of the Hinterlands just as any true beast of the forest would when free. The plains of wild verdures reached out far from the Frostback Mountains to the distant districts of Denerim, from the Kokari Wilds to the glistening blue waters of the Amaranthine Ocean. Many of the Inquisition rode on horseback, but the spritely halla had caused many mares to shake their reigns and prance their hooves. The vast nature called to them, beckoned them home. Yet all they could do was bay the calls of their masters, perhaps with only dreams of galloping through the land to settle their yearnings.

In a way, Lahris yearned the same way. As soon as the great gates of Skyhold had opened two days prior, she had been torn between wishing to stay and wishing to tear into the unknown. There were mysteries in Skyhold that wept to be solved, and there was safety in a fortress of a hundred men. Seeing the forests again had set her mind at ease for a while, though. Nature always had.

From the soft embrace of a spring wind against the heat of daylight, rosing her cheeks and matting her hair, to the patters of a nearby brook floating over emerald stalks. The sight of clear water gleaming over white pebbles. In truth, even though winter was the most beautiful season, there were times when the warmth of the sun was needed just to feel apart from the ice.

But the lingering fear of the open plain kept nudging that peace away. Her gaze swept across the land, from boulders to clustered oaks. Her hands clenched the halla reigns tight, even though iron shackles weighed them down.

She had not felt such fear since leaving the Dalish several months ago, and even that seemed like a distant past.

To her left another steed strode alongside her. The mage riding him was clad in a frayed tunic of evergreen, sashed in a pelt of old wolf fur with wilted leaves sagging in the hairs. "You fear too much, da'len," he said, rearing his stallion across the valley.

Dressed as he was, Solas appeared more like a humble apostate rather than a proud knower of Fade magics, one who dwelled in a grand tower of nobility. Perhaps that was the purpose of such clothing. And yet she concentrated on his words, found her throat dry.

 _Fear has kept me alive until now._

"We were relatively safe in Skyhold, hahren. Guards patrolled every tower, Templars trained in every courtyard. I was uncomfortable for a time, it is true, but out here anything can happen."

Jaras joined them on his own shaggy mare, falling in line with the two elves. He too had been shackled to his mount, the chains locked tightly into the saddle horn, while the remainder swayed against his thighs.

 _Lyrium-laced binds,_ Lahris knew, solemnly tilting her hands. Despite her frail attempts, no spell could break them.

"She was like this every time we were on the road. Better to be cautious than not, the Keeper would say. Hunters words that, thick and true, but sometimes you have to let nature take you, Da'mi, just as Ghilan'nain would have wanted. We are bein' marched through Fereldan with our very own escort. Inquisition shemlen, no less. Royalty in the makin'."

He chuckled, resting further along his saddle front. "We're as safe as safe could be."

As much as it pained her to admit, they indeed were not alone in their journey. Three archers guarded the back of their company. Two swordsman strode ahead. The last watched their port, though by the hundredth swig of his wineskin, Lahris held little faith in his reliability. _Who would allow one of their own to drink never mind be drunk on an assignment?_

The family of Ser Castillon must have been wealthy indeed.

The chains on Jaras' saddle begun to rattle. Slowly, the Dalish hunter reached out, his left arm shaking in what Lahris knew to be pain. Yet even with a scrunched face he continued to swat the air, leather-clothed thighs clenched tight along the edge of his saddle.

Ser Castillon scrunched his hook of a nose, batting the elf's attempts before raising his wineskin higher and higher as his horse began to drift away.

Jaras jerked sideward, yanking his reign so hard that his pony reared on its hind legs. "Calm down ya shem bastard!" he yelled, holding onto the saddle horn for dear life. Half rearing, he attempted to grab the reigns only for the mare to snatch it away with a sickening wrench of his arm.

"Hah!" chortled the guard, waving his drink around in triumph. "Serves you right for attempting to steal the Flames of Our Lady Red, serah! The drink is too expensive for the likes of you."

After a few moments the steed begun to settle, shaking its head and cantering down the valley. Jaras pulled the reigns back as far as such constraints could go, slowing the mare down to a mild stride.

"Lad," he groaned, rolling his shoulder back, "a bronto probably pisses better ale than that swill."

"Why, maybe you would not like a taste then."

The Dalish faltered, licking parched lips. "Andruil preserve me, oh you are a special kind of bastard, aren't ya?"

Ser Castillon grinned, toasting his wine to the heavens. "Why, my Dal _i_ sh, there is no bette _r_! This wine is only for the once chevaliers, and would rot your gut 'til there was no elf left!"

"Rot my gut, he says," the elf grumbled, tugging his binds one last time. "The clan had ale so foul it'd keep you dazed for days. Toad's tongue we called it. Like to see you try to keep that down long enough to not spit blood. Damned shemlen."

The company continued along the road south until daybreak, finding only travelling merchants and occasional tale of Fade Rifts to entertain them. By the time they had meandered up the tallest of hillsides, they happened upon a fire set far into the distance. Thick, black and growing like a plague upon the plain. It did not spread further than the borders of the village holding. It did not lie dormant when the cloud reached there either.

Crows arched the skies over such smog, and beneath feathered shadows the last holdings of the village crumbled into shimmering flame. Lahris tugged her halla backward, for her eyes scanned the horizon in a newfound silence.

There were no cries surrounding such a disaster, nor were there people fleeing the valley. It was as quiet as she, like witnessing a dream. A dream so far and ill-defined that it may have not been real at all. But of course, as was the will of shemlen, danger beckoned them _come_. With bows drawn and swords lifted the company drew closer to the village, striking swift across an ashened earth and rocky road, until the scent of smog was so thick it snuffed everything else.

Solas drew a sleeve over his nose, spying hints of cloth and bone from the ash. "Whatever happened here, it was no accident."

Jaras leaned over his saddle warily, his small, shaggy garron trotting carefully over the trail. "How can you be so sure, lad?"

The apostate pointed to the oaks beyond a row of once-cottages. "The forest around stands tall and untouched. The earth lies scorched but unbroken. And in the sky there's no hint of a storm in sight. No, nature was not the cause of this disaster. If I were to guess, I would say rebel mages were the cause. Only those with the ability to manipulate fire in such a way could leave the road bare."

Ser Castillon laid a hand over his sword, swiftly halting his mount. "You mages are always the cause. It is why we need the Templars, why the Chantry must be rectified and a Divine made present. Andraste's light, only she will know what will come of us, I say." He took another swig. "Maker blessed be these people, aid those who tarry not into darkness, but reach for your light…"

Jaras frowned. "I doubt you'll find your answered prayers at the bottom of a skin, lad."

Ser Castillon gazed into his uncorked ewer, sighing deeply. "All the Maker's chosen find wine in the end, serah. Why would he make wine if it were not true to do so?"

 _Our Gods teach of a different plan,_ Lahris wished to say, but found no words being uttered. _Death is not an end but a beginning. We will all be found in the Fade, eventually, and will be born upon our people anew under the grace of Elgar'nan and Mythal. Wind and sky, river and stone, warmth and cold._

Yet teachings and prayer were not so comforting. She had seen such destruction before a very long time ago. Memories of scorched hills and fire demons befell her mind, twisted her courage into indescribable fear, just as the flames charred the foundations of once-homes into withered stems; jagged, skeletal bones that would soon welt into wind-swept soot.

The company faltered within the heart of the village. The only shrine to survive such burns was the monestary of Andraste positioned by their front, its body of clinker finite only slightly bruised, though its diamond-tinted glass remained as bright as a newly born dawn.

 _Even fanatical faiths last in such devastation. If only the true pantheon were to be so fortunate._

Solas left the saddle of his steed in a sweep of black fur, cleansing the land beneath him in several flares of his hands. The fires parted further to the outskirts, only cresting the pinnacles of the more preserved ruins. The Inquisition knights also strode across the land, each scouting the terrain for the purpose of such a travesty. But of course the young elf knew who dealt the village a sore hand before she had smelt the tint of familiar magic in the passing breeze.

It was He who marked the land. The entire breadth was artistry of the damned, branded by a signature of His own wicked cursive. Yet not one so simply found. It took a keen observance to spy the hidden details that marked his passing, to put travesty to name, memory. And with Him, inspiration dined with madness, along with the blessing of three gods.

The wrath of Elgan'nan scoured all corners controlled, for flame indeed was the essence of might. His might. The second and third were water and light, reflection and face, breath and lung. A scene ravelled in mystery was the canvass, her own Dirthamen. Clues deigned by the hand of the burned and the pattern of the dead were that of Falon'Din. Shows of mystery and fealty, war and conquer. The living were a mercy after all, and by the detachment of the corpses, there was no mercy to be found.

Lahris saw the spire of the monestary and wondered, if she were to scower the land from the top, would she find scattered fragments of a fumbling apostate or the smouldering sceptre of horse hinds and severed heads dotting a void landscape?

If so, her fear was rightly placed.

"There's a note on the corpse," had come the call of an archer further down the path. A letter had been hammed by nail to the body though the parchment itself lay unscathed. Inbued by spell, it had been. Frost glittered along the edges.

Ser Castillon swiped the letter from the archer, thrusting the page into the bristles of his brows. He snorted, snapping it in the direction of the apostate. "I cannot make head or tail of this. Perhaps you will, messere. If not, to the fire it will go!"

Solas took the paper freely, peering down upon it with a reflective face. Until his bottom lip quirked. "This script is of my People."

"Elves?"

Solas went quiet, his gaze drifting across the text to accommodate every detail. "In a way," he mumbled, brows drawn lavishly close, his voice very low. Ser Castillon found himself leaning over his saddle to listen. "I can translate it, but perhaps it would be better for the Inquisitor to see it for himself."

"My Lord Inquisitor would not be privy to such trivial matters! No, best to share, messere. It might aid our search. Would not want the lions to pick up the scent when hounds do just as good."

The apostate nodded.

Lahris closed her eyes, knowing the very words that would be uttered from the cracked lips of her mentor. _Festered poison._

 _"Ar'an ane a alas'nir feel'ala, tarlin da'len. Ar silderara mar nu, mar revas nu. Ar ame. Sa shemlen mar nu, Var'sulahn. Itha ash'ala dina ise._

 _"Lasa Elgar'nan lasa ma soun'in i atish. Ar ame melenal."_

Ser Castillon groaned. "I may be fashioned in the arts of tongue, messere, but, pardon my vulgarity, by my dear mother's blessed heart I do not know bloody elf-speech! Speak true, man. The mother tongue!"

 _He speaks the mother tongue,_ Lahris thought grimly. _He speaks the mother tongue… the one tongue… His tongue…_

"We are a dance to last the centuries, master and child. I feel your pain. Yet your freedom is also pain. Bow, for I am still eternal. Save the mortals your pain, my song, or see them die in fire. I am waiting." Solas scowled, his finger near the end of the page. "Let Elgar'nan grant you wrath or peace."

"Was there a signer?" the once-chevalier inquired, twirling the end of his moustache in a peculiar manner.

Solas scowled deeply into the letter; his fingers crinkled the ends. "None."

Ser Castillon straightened, rearing his stallion back from the elf. "Then I find the answer obvious. We are dealing with a maddened elf admist the lust for power. Demon gone mad, I say. Still, the dead will deserve a proper burial. I will have a cleric come to bless the mound."

"And the letter?"

He swiped the icy parchment with one outstretched hand, picking the frost with a handkerchief and pocketing it within his pampered doublet. "I will take this personally to my Lord Herald. Either he, or the Commander, will be graced to see this. Let us hope we catch the criminal who did this most haste. Come, we must not tarry. Bay the graves adieu."

The once-chevalier cantered back down the road until only the slight flicker of a crimson cloak flared in the distance.

Solas looked to Jaras questionably, for he had grown suspiciously quiet.

The Dalish raised shackled hands. "I know what you're thinking, lethallin, and the truth is more complicated than you realise."

"Oh? How so?"

"This is a beginning, lad. You said it yourself, something about this land was wrong the moment we stepped in it like foul muck. You think a mage is responsible? A mere mage couldn't do all this, no matter what the Templars tell you or that pompous druffalo hide!"

"You're saying this village and your artifact are one in the same?"

Jaras raised a finger, slipping it over pursed lips. He leaned over his saddle, glancing into varying horizon. Crows, fire, smog, grassland and thickets. There was no concerning life.

He slowly nodded. "One and the same. The two where never different. Your shemlen herald will just not listen to reason. I'd doubt anything sprouted by our people would be heard in that head of his."

"Then you know more than you let on."

The Dalish shrugged, then winced. "Not as much as you might think, lad. Truth is I only know stories. It's my Da'mi that lived the tales and survived."

He gestured to the lonely elf with a hand, covering his bandaged elbow with the other.

The two elves observed the maiden on the halla silently, but to picture her condition as quiet, composed, shying off natural made as much sense as candleflame compared to the sun.

In a truth there was a similarity. Her breaths were low even symmetry from breasts to stomach. If seen from afar, she appeared not to be breathing at all.

Though she did not breathe because she could not. Inside her windpipes were constricted with the withering hooks of consternation. Her long nose flared in the need for breath. Her very face was iced in a sickily blue. The hands bound to her saddle grasped just a little too tight, as if she hung at the edge of eternity by a nail and the very forces of nature sought to shake her into the very heavens.

Lahris stared into the distance, her face void of drawn emotion. Solas took her hand, firming it in his own. " _Da'len_?"

Her chest fluttered, then sank. Her gaze remained on the open plain though her lips attempted to part, as if woven from within like the mouth of a Qunari mage.

The apostate reached up and shook her shoulder. " _Da'len_?"

"It is him, he is here, it is him, here is here," quivered her lips. The young elf inhaled sharply. "It is him, he is here, it is him, he is here. Come for me, fire and ash, fire and ash. The world of old undone by his hand can renew in blood and fire, fire and ash. Prophecies foretold, my power his…"

Her entire being broke, her body shaking like the shivering flames around her. "He is here, fire and ash, come for me, fire and ash."

She braced her head in her hands, hearing her own words drown her. "He is here, fire and ash, the world of old undone, his hand renew in blood-"

She gasped, her world tumbling as her back fell into the arms of the apostate. The sky above swirled in cloud, soon consumed by a flash of sunlight.

"Fire and ash, fire and ash-"

" _Da'len_!" Solas cried, clutching her tight to his chest.

" _Da'mi_!" she heard Jaras cry, but the world spun too swift for her to understand.

Solas held her face, stroked her cheeks, coaxed the soothing vibrations of a spell into her skin, for her to calm and lax and sleep.

"Who is here?" his voice resonated above the crackling fingers of fire, through her heart, tap, tap, tapping like a gong in her mind. "Lahris…"

She gasped one final time before the Fade consumed her.

"My master."


	8. Unfair Trials

.

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Eight: Unfair Trials

In the hall of the War Council, grand torches flared over the central oaken table in yellows and blacks. Orlais lay near consumed in holy catastrophe, with daggers and chest pieces scattering the fields and cities. The Kingdom of Ferelden lay bare faced, though while the flags dotting the Free Marches grew in number for noble allies, the iconic starburst pawns of the Inquisition were swept away by a fist. The very reality of a losing war became the fixed centre of attention.

"Our post at Hillbreach is lost," announced the Inquisitor, thumbing the snatched pawn within a shaken grip. He sighed, pressing the sun to his lip so hard that the spiked corner split his lower lip in two. Blood trickled down his chin, but he did not seem to care for the iron souring his tongue.

"The village was a small steading. Newly built, in fact. It began as a plan of sorts between myself and my adviser, Miss Montilyet," he informed, pacing steadily across the table, "to connect the northern edge of Lake Calenhad before it breached the sea. The village would supply our eastern outposts with timber, fresh fish and any barley that could be reaped. In turn, they were guaranteed our protection. An oath I dare say was not blindly declared on my part. I even gifted the village folk with two goats for their generosity, as is the old Ferelden custom. I can only presume the goats perished in the fires along with Hillbreach's people. I can only lay blame on those that survived and stand accused."

He paused mid-step, twisting the blood-cursed pawn to the elvhen maiden held captive by the shadowed wall beside the doorway. His lips curled back, sinister. "What misery hath your people not caused in the last few hundred years, elf, that could possibly save you from the headman's axe now?"

The elf did not respond, for she could not. She had not spoken in three days.

Instead, she ringed the head of a potion dangling from her waist-belt. The promise of speech it was supposed to have granted her, had she taken the liquid as prescribed. No, it only staved the notion to lash her magic upon the Inquisitor and let the council rain in the blood of their herald. For she had not felt such hatred in a very long time, but it began as soon as Jaras was sentenced to the gallows, and she made to explain herself before a tribunal of shemlen, all who probably already had come to an answer.

But she was not alone, not truly. Though her only brother-in-arms lay chained in an unmarked cell waiting execution, another elf had come to be her attorney. For in that time she was close to being as cruel as a hare cornered, while he only continued to be as composed as a wolf in sheep's clothing.

"Ah, and so the mighty Inquisitor finally shows his hawk-like self. Pinning blame onto any that strikes his eye, instead of rationalising the evidence lain out before his majesty. Has this truly all of what the Inquisition is to become, Inquisitor? Or is it just yourself that has warped it so?"

The Inquisitor pinched the bridge of his hooked nose hard, mumbling curses that eagerly struck the edges of his moustache like serrated knives. "We have never had the same views, Solas. But even you must see that the elf is in the wrong!"

"This _elf_ as you put it, previously warned of the incoming peril that followed her during her last trial, had she not? Or are my own ears at fault as well?"

The Spymaster, Leliana, drew in from her own basking shadow, tapping her pale ivory chin with a finger.

Solas continued. "You knew what was at stake the moment you spared her from public execution. You sent her to me to find an answer to her power-"

"And have you? Found the cause?"

The apostate sighed. "These matters aren't so simple, Inquisitor. We have barely broken the surface but we are making progress. To blame her for the perils that happened at Hillbreach is madness at best, tyrannical at worst! Just as you would be at fault for all the deaths Corypheus has caused. Just because the matters are related does not mean she is the one who should be accused."

The Inquisitor braced the table with eight veined knuckles pulsing, leaning daringly over the map of Orlais. "The people demand blood. They will continue to sing at my door until those that have caused the destruction are put to justice. You know how much we rely on the people, Solas. I have starved their lust for justice once, but to do so again-"

"And was it not long ago that those same people lusted for your own death when they thought you were the cause of the Breach? Were you not wrongly accused back in Haven?"

"That is entirely different-"

"It is entirely the same! Only you cannot see past your own sense of pride!" Solas pinched the bridge of his nose, just as the Inquisitor had done, only differencing with a much calmer mien reaching the surface. "Your people forgave you for all your wrong misdoings. They could do the same for her, if you willed it."

"So what will you have me do, Solas? Let her walk free?"

"She is already as much a prisoner as you have had her believe. The least you can do is let her prove to you that what she says is right."

"We should look into this matter before coming to conclusions," interrupted the Spymaster, carefully collecting the letter previously found at Hillbreach. "I'll consult with our elven linguists. Maybe they can find a match to the writer. I'll consult with my scouts as well. No one disappears entirely, Inquisitor. We will find who is responsible."

"To which I have no doubt, Leliana," the Inquisitor agreed, waving his hand for the meeting to be adjourned. "But what to do with the elf now, I wonder…"

"I would suggest must needed rest," Solas mumbled, carefully taking Lahris by the shoulder and guiding her towards the door. "I will see to her, Inquisitor. I would suggest releasing her friend as well."

The Inquisitor slowly nodded. "For now." He eyed Lahris' back thoughtfully, loudening his tone so that she could hear his next words very, very clearly. "But it serves a purpose. A warning for them to know what will happen should they ever think to cross the Inquisition. And I will not be so merciful should the truth prove otherwise."

~~o~~

"So you have survived another encounter with the Inquisitor. Bards will sing of such comings, I assure you."

Lahris stared into the herbal brew settled within a porcelain cup. Her hands curved loosely around it. The sweet smell of honey flittered into her nose, yet still she did not speak, even when the fumes wafted from her mouth like dragon breath.

Solas retired to his desk, though he glanced over his stacks of assorted memoirs when she did not rise to the jest. His fingers flicked over another page, but his ears quirked to her seating. "Ah! Here we are. I wondered where I had placed this."

Shifting between parchment and scrolls, the apostate quickly strode over to the couch by the left-wing doorway and sat by her side. "You wished to know more of the Fade, if I remember correctly. There are few present day authors that seem to grasp what it has to offer. Most are simply the poorly written ramblings of a Chantry cleric. Few truly understand the nature of spirits. That is where we should begin. This tome is one of the few least prejudiced I own. I would be happy to share it with you…"

His smile faltered. The elf beside him continued to stare into the brew he had poured, with little of his words being heard.

She had not changed since leaving Skyhold. Muteness was only part of her problem. The plain white gown the maids had dressed her in when she had first awoke had begun to sag across her chest and waist, seeming to some a skeleton of what she had first been. Her raven locks once in perfect braids had matted into crossing stitches with bits of straw and dirt from her tower peaking out all askew. Her skin was still a ghostly pale, so remiscient of the crystal grace bunched in the vase behind her that it had his brows drawn worryingly close.

She just continued to sip her tea. It was only when his gaze caught the vial at her belt that he began to speak again. "Were you a slave once?"

The cup shattered instantly. Solas cursed, snatching a rag from the nearest table and draining the herbal residue from the bloodied cuts crossing her hands. She watched the wounds pour almost therapeutically, as the traces of green leaf mingled in a red river. She winced when the rag dug too deep.

Her gaze swept over Solas with a curious lift of her ears. He did not seem to even notice her change in focus until she parted her lips to whisper, "once."

His hands faltered, his head rising ever-so-slowly. "Was it he who burned Hillbreach?"

She nodded _yes._

"Why didn't you explain this to the Inquisitor?" he asked, dabbing her hands once more. "Why didn't you defend yourself?"

"Why did you defend me?"

"I would be a poor mentor if I didn't protect the words of my student. And… I was there when you fell. I have seen much in my travels. Pure terror is one of the hardest reactions to mimic, and I have seen my fare share. The Inquisitor may see it as he likes. I believe you."

Lahris smiled warily and opened her hands. Solas returned her smile, dabbing the last remaining wounds. He then set the rag down and collected her hands, bringing them close to his lips. Soft, warm breath tickled her during the long murmur of a spell, his eyes of grey never quite leaving hers. The warmth continued to spread into the injuries, flushing the skin pink and lightly soothing the prickling pain. In a flare of blue the magic faded, seeping deeply into her skin.

He closed her hands, cupping them over her lap. The cuts had been newly healed.

"Mas serannas," Lahris whispered, before the apostate's tome settled in her lap.

"None are necessary, _da'len,"_ he reassured, nodding to the book. "Read it. Study it. Make your notes and tell me how you feel in the morning."

"I'm still not sure I understand. Why are you being so kind to me?" At his frown, she continued. " _Vhenan sul a vhenan._ A heart for a heart. All I have come across wish something from me. Nothing is given freely. Why is it that you defend me, keep me safe, wish to teach me magic that has no benefit to you? Is it simply the power I harbour that commands this curiosity about you?" She sighed, shaking her head. "I'm so confused."

Solas lightly snorted, clapping his thighs as he stood. "You overthink much, _da'len._ Go, get some sleep. We will discuss more of this on the morrow when you are well rested."

"And what is to prevent the Inquisitor from locking me in my tower and throwing away the key?"

"His honour. He may seem ruthless, but he holds his honour quite highly. That cannot be said for all their kind. Do not worry yourself. You have nothing to fear."

 _If only that were true,_ she thought, shaking the notion from her mind. For that night the Fade plagued her with nightmares. From the midsts of her tower screams rung over the battlements, but it was an unkind evil that caused a blizzard to take over the entirety of Skyhold just as suddenly so that her torture mingled with the wind, leaving her bare and naked in the wake of true fright.

Lahris had liked the gloom winter brought, with the icy tinge to the air around her and the grey rattle of sleet adorned on roof to roof, pane and shutter. The way hearths warmed the bare stone from wall to floor and the way her frozen abode in the castle flickered in many tapers. Snuggled in furs with a tome in hand. There was no calmer time. But in her dream that had twisted, just as the tapers had melted and froze in their pallets, and that there was only snow and shadow to greet the newly awaken elvhen.

Lahris had passed down the iced steps of her tower with a spell illuminating the cracked walls lilac. She curled her gown tightly around her with her other hand, but her breath continued to fog the way ahead. Until the final doorway parted on its own accord.

On the parapet walk winter stole her breath, leaving her fingernails snapping against the balustrade and her legs dropping to the floor.

Tarasyl'an Te'las was a graveyard.

Dark with age and grey with the soot of what could only have been a war of fire, the fortress once teeming with life now gripped its half of the mountain with decrepit bones. Walls were gouged from the west corner. Towers teetered on the edge of the cliffs, almost rocking with faded banners in the heavy gail of the wind. The stables no longer had rooves, only a mark of black timber rising from the snow where the remainder of a foundation managed to survive.

Lahris cupped her mouth, and sobbed. Not because of the devastation that had ended the lives of over a hundred people, or even the end of an empire before it had the chance to take wings and fly. But of the pattern the bodies made in the courtyard. Worst of all. She knew them.

Over stone her bare feet padded. Passed stilted grass and wilted trees with branches curling down as if to catch her with thorned fingers. The red sails of aravels flared from snow mounds. The wagons themselves too lay several feet under white, and lain in circles were the heads of halla wretched from their antlers. The bodies of her Dalish were in the inner circle, half-charred and eaten by wild critters.

In the centre of the courtyard a fire burned. Crafted from the missing antlers, twisting from the ice like a many-branched willow lacking leaves. The stench of sorcery filled the air around her. Only it was not a musty stench like old tomes, but of iron and burned meat; flesh that still cooked.

Lahris' eyes, first a shimmer of green, flecked in yellow and red. She screamed with her heart battering her chest bloody; with fingers raking the snow into clumps. Heads decorated the spikes. The top flared in the locks of brown, caught on the head of an arrow that had been lodged straight through the eye-socket. Jaras, decapitated, had been sewn onto the dead antlers of her Assan. And the fire continued to burn.

"Var'sulahn," He uttered; a sweep of black in the dark that did not dare stray into the firelight. "Var-sul-ahn."

 _Leave me,_ she whimpered, closing her eyes so tight her sight burned white. _Leave me. Leave me._

"Var'sulahn. Ma da'len."

 _Dirthamen no, you promised me-_

A slow clap sounded over the whaling of the wind. Steps trudged steadily through the snow, nearing her shivering hair and flaying gown. _Leave me. Leave me. Leave me._

Lahris held her breath, stilling under the watchful gaze of He who breathed ragged pants over her naked collarbone. Far from the sickly light of the fire, the shallow pants only grew more heavy, and her mind clouded in the vision of a jaw cracking in a grin so wicked, it shook her very core. She clutched the snow tight, did not dare breathe even when a nose slunk over her skin, trailing a row of half-kisses to her ear.

" **I** am waiting."


	9. Lessons

.

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Nine: Lessons

"You have nothing to fear, _da'len_. Close your eyes."

Lahris did as he commanded, inhaling deeply the scent of herbal incense. Her mind drifted, dispelling the chirping of birds and scribes from above to the gentle tapping of the metronome. Her fingers eased over the sofa armchair, her sigh clouding the illumination of candlelight to varying intensities of grey.

He caressed her cheek and forehead, murmured a spell that sent her further and further into slumber. Until she was completely consumed.

When she awoke she found herself in the atrium once more. Reclined across dusty straw and cotton sheets, she was small compared to the rounded walls that bounded up and up to no apparent end. The candles flamed green around her, casting much of the lower rotunda in living shivers. "Am I-?"

"Having a pleasant dream?" Solas smirked, gently taking her hand and aiding in her rise.

Lahris slowly twirled around the room, using her finger to pick out parts of the world that did not seem quite right. She eyed the arched ceiling joists high above her, though she was sure a moment ago there was no ceiling to be had. Magic crackled around her as if something intrinsically new, fluent and easy even to mould into a form. She attempted it, cupping her spell into a ball of light that with little thought stretched into a winged butterfly. In the blow of a kiss the spell fluttered free, rising high above until it finally disappeared.

"This place cannot be real-"

"A matter for debate," the apostate chuckled, bidding for her hand once more. "Shall I show you more?"

"Would that not attract the attention of spirits?"

Solas scoffed, as if finding the very notion absurd. "We already have." He linked their fingers loosely, coaxing her towards the west-wing doorway. "Let us begin."

They disappeared from the Keep to the bailey without seeing the throne hall. However, the very depiction of the bailey was far too detailed to be of Lahris' imagination. It was true she had ventured through Skyhold when nights afforded it, but even she knew that she could not recreate the bright orange flays of its shrubbery; the glistening white-blues of its flooded grassland, or the indent of netted lichen over the stonework bridge to the forge. Even afar she heard the hammer damming the anvil, the chisel's quarter, the graver's score. Saw forged blades be hammered to hilt, and for steel to rise smouldering flame to white.

Her tongue even tasted leather. Though that was always the case when passing the formation of sculptured ironwork.

Still they circled the steps, met the paved earth sun-touched and shivering in the shadows of dusk. The hearths of the tavern billowed smog into the sky, yet the deep blue-purple patterns beside the sparse cloud cover lay unaffected.

Lahris gazed over the twin crow pillars placed on either side of the stairway and noticed that if she lingered on them just enough, their one ruby eye would wink emerald green.

"Is this your memory?" she asked, noticing the fluency in which he walked, with dead leaves cackling under his clothed toes. Even he seemed overly perfect in some sense, in his rough-spun tunic of cotton white. It even swayed in the breeze in elegance, reminding her of a confident royal.

The apostate turned from surveying the area, a surprised smirk lifting his sharp cheekbones. "How very observant. Indeed it is. Pray tell, how did you know?"

She smiled, raising a hand to the figureheads. "I could never recreate these, Solas. It is like one of your paintings. You have mastered every detail, but one."

He quirked a brow. "Oh? And what would that be?"

"The Inquisition do not have crows on their banners, _hahren_. The Inquisitor likes Orlais far too much. They are all throughout his halls: golden lions with great red bows over their manes. He would have them or the naked bosom of Andraste. Dirthamen knows I have seen that more than once in those Chantry monestaries."

She shuddered, remembering the utter shock in first witnessing those golden orbs dented into the delicate frame of a crowned, curvaceous maiden. The artistry of mortals truly was… unique.

His smirk fell into a confused frown, lightly quirking at the corners. "Those are not crows, _da'len_."

The elvhen looked back to find that the pillars had strangely changed. Neither were of a winged bird in flight but rather four blades pointing outward with a star-burst banner on their podiums. She blinked twice, unsure if what she had seen had been truly there.

Solas stared at her a moment longer before returning to his speech. "You were correct. You have yet the mastery to project your own thoughts into the Fade and have it shape to your desire. It will come in time. But if we chose a dream for the Fade to take, your self conscious would not see it as you do now. You would be consumed by it until the morning."

"So, this is my potential?"

"Indeed it is. But let us focus on the basics for now." He cupped his hands behind his back, gesturing outward to the place she saw before her with a light nod. "All of this is a reflection of my thoughts on Skyhold. You might find parts of this place that might not seem real to you, like the way the grass shivers in the wind, or the colour of the water. As it is a reflection, it can be altered."

Within a moment the drowned grassland of the bailey transformed from a shivering blue-white into a dim, murky green with patches of algae forming along the bay. In the flick of a wrist the water changed once more, becoming completely black with a twinkling night sky reflecting in the surface.

Her lips parted into an 'o' and eyes rounded immensely. She dipped a hand into the water, watching how it shimmered between day and night.

Solas knelt beside her, lightly stroking the grass around it with his fingers. "Do you know what reflects all of this?"

"Spirits?"

"Correct. Unlike what the Chantry believe, all spirits born are benevolent. They only change when their source has changed. If I were to meet a spirit of compassion without judgement, it would remain compassionate. However, if I were to reach out to it in grief, the spirit would then adopt that mentality, reflecting the same grief until it is no longer what it once was."

"And that is how demons are formed?"

"Precisely! Even now I could twist the very nature of the spirits around us. But what would be the point of that? Spirits are the heart and soul of the Fade, _da'len_. Who are we to temper with the very nature in which they were created?"

Lahris frowned down at the water, finding his own scowl mirroring hers. "Is that why you isolate yourself from other mages? Because you blame, or maybe expect them to make these mistakes?"

"They will never change," he whispered, glaring deeply into the pool.

She leaned further forward, catching the musk of pine from his tunic. The very answer seemed to spill from her lips without even a thought, having experienced and knew it for herself. "Shemlen."

The very first day she awoke to the new era, shemlen had been the bane of her existence. She had seen the faults of humanity, of dwarven kind, even of the Dalish themselves. Nothing compared to the land before, nothing. And her soul wept for it everyday.

His eyes met hers, grey to green, and it seemed in that moment that they understood each other. She was not sure why he seemed more elvhen then than any other elf she had come across, was not sure what about him intrigued her to know more. Perhaps it was his sense of pride. Perhaps it was his determination to find the ancient world she had lost and recover it. Perhaps it was that sense of attachment to the old that allowed her to listen to his words. To how wise he thought he was. In that instant, it made her feel more at home than any other.

He nodded once and returned to full height.

"The Dalish can change," she said, catching him by surprise. "The clan I came from are surprisingly open-minded. You could teach them what you believe. They will listen."

"They wouldn't listen," he answered, gazing over the land he had formed. "You are the exception."

They continued to travel through the world he had created. Through it all he explained the manner of spirits, of how they had aided in his search of history and how in time she would be allowed to visit one in its domain, once he was sure she possessed the mentality necessary to keep it stable.

It could have been hours they were in the Fade. It could have been days. In it all, she did not wish it to end. Until she happened upon the Herald's Rest.

Solas did not see her pause in their exploration. Instead, he was too preoccupied in his own explanations to see the oddity that was the door to the tavern. The stone-thatched building had become unusually cold, its arrow-slit windows dark save for one high in the loft, cradling a green-flamed candle on its mantle.

The presence of Andraste's painting by its doorsign made her frown. It swung eerily without breeze. Then, as she dared a step closer, the doorway parted without force. Whispers tore through the gap like a song, coaxing her legs to drift towards the tavern even without her own self awareness. Before Lahris knew it her hand was against the door, cranking the iron handle down and causing its hinges to creak into the dark.

She stepped through, leaving the domain of her hahren to the isolated dwelling of another. And He did not share Solas' decorum for picturesque. In the shift of the Fade she was welcomed by the cold-hearted vision of what she feared most. Lahris lurched back, but the doorway had disappeared. Replaced by a gorge so deep its abyss was endless. Her toes teetered over the edge of a cliff.

Jerking back when a gust of wind teased her over, Lahris fell to the ground with a thud. She quickly clawed back to a stand, her gown bellowing dust when whispers once more chilled the air.

Grey mist rose from the brittle weeds and dry earth crunching beneath her toes, even though the very vines dangling from the canopies above dripped in a foreign, sickly dew that stuck to her skin. As the mist began to dissipate into the surrounding undergrowth, the outline of a grove emerged into the clear.

Ahead, the mouth of a temple bore its jagged fangs. Woven into a dark, decaying forest, there was no telling where stone ended and flora began. But she knew it all too well. It had her clutching her gown tight, shivering.

 _It is just the Fade,_ she told herself, forcing her eyes closed. _It is not real. It cannot hurt me._

 _"A matter for debate,"_ she remembered Solas say. She cursed under her breath, opening her eyes and cowering further under the webbed cover of a dead oak trunk.

The steps to the temple were cracked pieces: the mortar between the stones dry, crumbling. But the skeletons of her People littered them, with arms askew from speared chest plates and mouldy bones arching from bloodied rags. From within the mouth, where the doors had been shattered in two and the very darkness of the temple's inner hall grew outward, the same whispers of her nightmares past hissed into the grove like a mute man's prayer - wordless and animalistic.

Though she did not cower. She could not. For she had witnessed it far too many times and needed for once to face its ghosts.

" _Var'sulahn_ ," the temple whispered, instilling her chest with fear. " _Var'sulahn_ ," it exhaled in another drowsy murmur as soft as thistledown. So very familiar to her. Like those very seeds grown from the root, it lured her out from hiding.

In the darkness a swirl of mist caught the eye of a loom, with threads of liquid dreams clashing into the pool of a watery vision. Inside, the first she saw was the shimmer of a proud tanned face and ringed knuckle. The second, the distant memory of a well-lit hearth scintillating in the flames of veilfire, with a father perched upon the end of an old notched escritoire. By his veined hand a quill blotted parchment in ink. And upon the creak of a door, thick brows rose over eyes that were the very mirror of her own.

Smiling from his stead, the father placed the feather delicately in its holster. He rose in a sweep of blue robe sashed in cream velvet. Spread his long cuffs wide, with a hearty guffaw shaking the memory twice.

Lahris rose to meet him, her own hands high and shaking. But when her fingers graced the cool water, her father's image vanished in a puff of alabaster smoke. And the call of her name drifted into obscurity.

Lahris gasped. Her hands flew out, attempting to catch the last remaining clouds that only painted her bare hands red. "It was not my fault," she cried, falling back from the temple and striking her hands against the earth, cursing the blood that only continued to smear her palms.

"What do you want with me, demon?!" The forest remained silent. She could only fall to her knees, her shoulders slumped low, quivering as sobs wracked her throat. "What do you want with me? Please, enough of your tricks! My ears are open to you. Tell me what you wish of me."

Her hair stirred in a gust of wind. Grass snapped under a fallen curtain of dry cloth. The frayed ends fluttered like a dove's wing, but the feathers were all wrong: torn and askew. A coldness seeped into her flesh, leaving her frozen and blistered in bumps. Her left arm tingled suddenly, and the black veins of her curse flashed lilac in warning.

The demon had come.

Dressed as a widow drowned in grief, It wore a veil of tattered lace concealing its face from the world. But from its sleeve a claw reached out, tangling in a lock of wet, matted raven and casting it up to the edge of its chin. The demon sniffed once, it's exhale a puff of fire breath. Then it let her go free. For a price.

There was only one word. "Return."

~~o~~

Lahris returned to Skyhold through the arch of another doorway. Little had changed since her leave. The sun continued to shine over the distant mountains. The shrubbery and its land remained a summery gold - an odd contrast to the drafts of sleet twinkling from the rooves on the towers. And the pond in the bailey remained a rainbow of daylight and night, yet to be altered by its creator.

It was not long before she was greeted by Solas, and he seemed to be more curious than afraid for her disappearance.

Lahris quietly stepped into his shadow, raising her gaze under hair that had quickly dried in the new world the Fade took. Only when his lips pursed to speak she raised her hand, causing his brows to rise quizzically and ears to twitch in her direction.

"I must go home."

Solas stared at her curiously. "Home?" She nodded once. "And where would your home be, _da'len_?"

Far to the east of the Frostback Mountains. Over the white watered shores of Lake Calenhad, through the open plains of Ferelden's Hinterlands to the deep nest of the Brecilian Forest. Over the overgrown roads and under the burrows. Ahead of the treants wailing in the nights, and away from the wolves prowling during the days. There, in the very heart of Elvhenan's own ruins, was where the Sahlin clan was cradled from the very corruption of the world. Only there amongst the Dalish could she find an end to her nightmares. But, she did not wish to journey alone.

"Come with me," she implored, cupping her hands to her chest. "You wish to see more of the ancients. Let me show you what I know."

"You were terrified to leave Skyhold five days prior, _da'len_. What in the Fade has caused you to change your mind?"

Her ears drooped to her shoulders. She sighed, knowing that such a change in mindset would worry anyone. Especially when in a world of spirits. However, she knew her nightmares would only continue to plague her mind until she did what the demon commanded. There was the threat of her master beyond Skyhold's walls, but the threat to her sanity was something even she could not face forever. It did not matter how safe she was if she turned mad in the process.

"I cannot go alone," she admitted, biting back the urge to spit the honesty from her tongue. _Weakness_. "I cannot travel the roads alone without knowing I may be ambushed by my… by who burned Hillbreach. And there are questions I need answers to. I may be afraid, but this is something I must do. Will you come with me, _hahren_?"

"You'd ask me to betray the Inquisition. To face the unruly vengeance of the Inquisitor himself all because you search for answers to questions that might not even bare fruit?" Upon noticing her wavering hope, his small smile only grew ten-fold. "Shall we leave at first light?"

Lahris grinned merrily. "Mas serannas, _hahren_! You will not regret this, I assure you." She took a step towards the castle's keep, faltering mid-step when she realised that she was not sure how to leave the Fade.

Solas strode alongside her, shifting her shoulders so that she fit directly opposite him. He took her chin in his hand, smiling down when her eyes drifted half-closed. "I will find you by the stables, _da'len_. Just as soon as you… _wake up_."

The last she saw was his wolfish grin fading from her dreams like morning mist.

...

Hope you are all enjoying the story so far. Thank you for reading and hopefully another chapter will be up soon.

Please feel free to comment. It means a lot :)


	10. Long Travels

.

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Ten: Long Travels

The elvhen fled the battlements of Skyhold in the garnet rainment of an Inquisition scouting party. Crows sung in a flitter of night-wings upon the departure of their galloping steeds into the faraway wilds, with only the moon to shelter them from the storm.

For three days they travelled from mountains to hills; brooks to dells; villages to farms. On the fifth day's ride the land dropped into a deep pitted valley. One of trails instead of roads, netted in rashvine nettles peeking from hard-packed dirt. Ferelden was a country of rich wild flowers and fermented soil. Lahris' beast often grazed on the open plains as a halla spoilt, fat. Even when they swept over the bay of the Drakon River and into the territory of Dragon's Peak. His rump grew in mass the further they travelled, even with his dashinh legs clouding the way behind him.

The winds cooled the closer seaward they drew. Scents of musty pollen mingled with the odd flavourings of bitter salt, parching the throats of them all. Lahris had dreamed of the old map Solas carried when they rode. Imagined him scouring the distant hills for rickety signs that bandits had hacked away many years ago for firewood. Only the stumps remained when they passed in the morning. But while Solas attempted to guide them safely to the clan, she could not help but giggle in hidden delight. For she knew the path innately and it was often that they took the wrong path south, if to make the trail more entertaining to explore.

It was when the steeds met deadfall that an arch of arthritic conifers walled the entirety of the eastern realm. They had reached the Brecilian Forest, facing it in all its gnarled, rotten glory.

"The Veil feels weaker here," announced Solas, patting his stallion's neck. It bristled under his touch - the fear of the forest beyond igniting its instinct to flee. He reared his reigns. Whispered calming words into its back-tipped ears.

Lahris' own halla pawed its contempt into the dirt. The way forward was not a nightmare to Assan. It was home.

"Shemlen have always been spooked by these roads." Jaras grinned, cupping his brows over the horizon. "Once saw a group dashing across the fen blue-bottomed and sweaty. Supposed they were goaded to stay in the forest 'til nightfall. It only took a few false wolf calls and the snap of a few branches to make 'em scarce."

"Let me guess. That was your own doing?"

Jaras howled in response.

Lahris noticed the stretch of grassland parting them from the forest. She gripped her reigns tighter, warily eying the choking greenery. "That may be why there are so many rumours to these lands."

The Dalish snorted. "Good thing to be had, Da'mi! Wouldn't want more of their ilk tainting what little lands we have left." He raised his arms high, stretching them until the bones popped. "Wonder what the game's like this close to Fall. Just think, Da'mi. Squirrel strew cooked by ol' Orananni's stewing pot. Fresh venison and onions and carrots!"

He gripped his stomach hard, crinkling the leather of his jerkin. "Andruil preserve me, oh I can almost smell it!"

"And of you, _da'len?"_ asked Solas, edging his steed to her side. "What do you hope to see while being here?"

Lahris pulled her cloak tightly over her waist, shifting her legs so that her left settled by her right and its stirrup. "A place to rest," she laughed, smiling more when his frown grew more disappointed. "And you? Are you looking forward to meeting the Dalish?"

His long nose scrunched, as if smelling something foul. "As much as a hare anticipates the stew pot, as your companion so aptly put it."

" _That_ much? My, _hahren_ , it is a wonder how you ever smile."

"Only when the opportunity permits it. Which seems quite often when in your company."

Lahris' smile wavered and a blush crept over her cheeks. "Oh?"

Eyes widening, the elder elf coughed into his fist, then turned his attention back to the forest. "Yes, well… presumably. I, of course, you are a fair travelling companion and a good student. And the chance to pass on wisdom is in itself a rare treasure worth hoarding. But we should continue, before the sun sets…"

She watched as his black steed followed Jaras' through the grassland, chuckling at how silly their friendship had become. It nearly bordered over platonic, in her mind. After tipping her cowl further forward and tucking her long ears into the nooks, she smiled in the hope that it would someday continue.

Their stretch of path thinned under the crammed canopies of evergreens, so clustered together in their stands that the land beneath bordered on an annular eclipse. The way ahead could only be seen through the rare shaft of daylight peaking through broken branches. Creatures swept by as watery figures crunching dead leaves. Snapping dry twigs. Solas watched the spirits go. His lips were firm and silent.

Six months. That was how long it had been since her return. Six months. Little had changed since her depart.

Hooves clattered over ancient pave stones. Mist rose from the earth in a hiss of secrets, curling round the horse's hinds.

The forest was a dangerous place for those with frail hearts, weak minds, jittery souls. Whatever the truth of its legends, be it swamp crones, Fade rifts or demons lurking in the brush, there were plenty of enough bones away from the path to hint into the fates of those that strayed too far away. Death, she suspected, was the least of their worries. And yet the air wavered in her sigh of melancholy.

The path drifted into swamp water. Solas watched the tide flow beneath him, tall on his steed. "I fear this land has become an assembly of travesties. Spirits are being called here. I wonder what caused this."

"The Keeper spoke of many stories to the clan. I'm not quite sure which are to believed."

"Legends of their god's noble endeavours I have no doubt," he jibed, sneering into deeper underwood.

"Sometimes," she corrected, frowning back. "But mostly of wars between the elvh-… ancient elves and the Tevinter Imperium. Sometimes he spoke of warring families and valiant kingship. You should really listen to him when he spins his tales, Solas. They truly are quite entertaining. He might even listen to you."

The apostate regarded her curiously, watching as her halla shifted through the ebb of the river to quickly parry onto dry land. Only when his own steed readied the climb did he spy pale shimmers cascading across the water. His gaze flashed up to the trees. "Wait. We're not alone here."

Jaras kicked his mare up the path, smirking when Solas caught his eye. "Really, flat-ear? We were never alone to begin with."

Pillars of ashwood guided the remainder of the way. Totems decorated their podiums, cut in archaic languages with bear skulls roped to their fronts by hewn twine. It was not long before the pillars grew in height, clustered within shorter gaps. A long wall eventually enclosed them. Lahris tapped Assan's flank, raising his mud-mottled fur over the last remaining brush. A gateway ended their journey, washed on its front in bright red paint.

Jaras slipped from his mare in a shuffle of sanded leather. He tore the bow from the saddle, clipped it over one rugged shoulder. Lahris cringed when her skirts met the mud, knowing she should have worn the archer's breeches instead. Still, shivering more when mud oozed between her toes, she grasped Assan by the bit and tugged him gently along to the clan's front entrance.

Inside, the natter of fifty villagers rose over the walls in merrisome delight. Lahris wondered briefly if the cheer was for her return, though she doubted the Dalish waited with baited breath. Her mind flashed back to the quiet evening in which she had first taken her leave. Only two elves bayed her goodbye. The rest continued to reap and sew. Oblivious to her passing. _At least one cared for me._

She straightened at the door - a bolt of shaped timber cut into a five-pointed arch. Her hand slipped over the surface and she closed her eyes. Magic resonated from the wood. Runes were engraved so deeply that even the mere radiance of the sun could not decipher its placing.

"Is everything alright, _da'len?"_ the apostate inquired, climbing down from his saddle and releasing his staff from the horse's back.

His question had come too late.

In the swerve of a glance silver glinted over nearby copses. Leaves tore from the grove like shrapnel; arrows whipped from leather backs, and drawstrings cracked in a wide berth. Silence fell over the company, bitter and unsweet. In another flare their staffs were snatched from their fingers, dumped before the clan's main door.

Jaras hissed when his own bow was torn from his shoulder and thrown into the dirt by a red-sashed brigand. He growled, thrusting the arrows from his chest. But then the sliver of a blade slunk up his throat, bobbing in sequence with his adam's apple. The brigand tsked, snickering when his victim's tongue forked out to wet dry lips.

Though Jaras was the one that was safe. The same could not be said for Lahris, who prickled under the foreign breath of a swamp witch. Hands braced over the door, breath held back, she felt long fingerstips draw her cowl down to her shoulders and swipe her hair leisurely to one side.

"An outcast, a thief and a flat-ear. Andruil has shined her cunning this day," the swamp witch jested, arching the elvhen's back with the point of an arrowhead. "And here I thought this day was to be a tiresome one. What strange company you keep, Elgar'shiral. How strange indeed."

"I see you never tire of your tricks," Lahris replied, wincing under the chill that coursed down her spine. "Mythal'enaste. You have gotten better at hiding."

"And you've gotten ignorant of your surroundings, lethallan. But that hasn't really changed, has it?"

"Has it not?" Lahris reached up, curling her fingers back to present the glimmering crackle of a spell confined. She felt the arrowhead freeze and grinned. "As the shemlen lords say in Orlais. Touché, Velani."

"Hmph. And I feared your time with the shemlen would make you soft." The Dalish scout released her friend slowly, grasping her left hand and twirling her around into an embrace. Lahris choked, lightly weaving her arms around her. "T'is good to see you again, lethallan! Too long has it been. You must share your tales of the beyond. What was it like? Are the shemlen as crude as we know, or as timid as the Keeper would have us believe?"

Lahris grinned at the fair-haired maiden, noticing that her locks had been recently chopped to reach the length of her ears, framing her long face in wavy curls. Tanned, tall and svelte. There was a reason why she was the lead scout on the Sahlin Clan's raids, and why she always brought back the grandest game. As shown by two hunters wrought in steel like fisher's mail, with a stag haunch between each elbow.

The clan would feast heartily that night. _Mythal blessed us indeed with calmer skies,_ she thought, nipping her lip when her stomach growled low, fierce. _Another day and I may have ate Jaras' stuffed hare hat._

Velani grinned. "You sound hungry enough to eat the entire bulk! Good thing this was part of a two day heist, then, or we'd have to tear you out of the clan so the children could eat."

The thought made Lahris cringe, though the mere mention of food had the scouts lowering their arms and sheathing their arrows. Velani twisted to Jaras, whom with the shiv of a blade under his chin, barely managed an awkward gulp.

"What's the matter, lethallin? Fen caught your tongue?"

"Always delightful to see you lass," he muttered, cringing when the silver nipped his chin.

Velani reached up to languishly pet the hunk of fur falling from his forehead to lower back. "Down boy."

He growled, snapping his head to one side. "Damnable lass."

"And you." She sauntered up to Solas, strong hips in sway. She leaned down to his shoulder, sniffed thrice, then scowled. "Really, Elgar'shiral? We already have firsts and seconds under the Keeper as is. But another clever-man? We thought the dwarf enough."

Lahris frowned. "Dwarf? What dwarf?"

"A lot has happened since your leave, sister. Come, let me show you."

To her surprise, the inside of the clan had changed since her last venture into Dalish borders. A settlement of timbered huts draped in bright red sails, the Sahlin clan was only a small company of elves, halla and farmers all safely tucked into the surrounding ringfort of elven craftsmanship. When she had first chose to leave, the surrounding pillars had only just been built. Now nature had claimed much of the rest, solidifying the very fortification within clustering vine roots and spindleweed.

Varieties of metal - bronze, gold, even emerald veridium - had been woven into the homes, reinforced the pallicades, shining bold in the evening dusk-light. There were even kilns outside many of the homes with racks of clay, flint and resin from neighbouring pits. Pots decorated pillared podiums, painted in a similar fashion to the ancient elves and their murals. Mosaically symbolic.

Farmers soon rose over their fields upon spying the newcomers to their little sanctuary. Ears pricked from home steads. Curtains were tugged apart from open panes. Doorways were inched just a little further inward while bright eyes shone through the dark like tiny mountain cats.

Lahris curled her shoulders in and tied the ends of her garment so close together that she appeared more of a widow than a young woman bright-eyed and keen to be home.

Velani tapped her left shoulder, causing a stammer in her walk. "They're just curious, lethallan. Outsiders are rare in these parts, and many never thought you'd return."

"I remember the first time they saw me coming down the mountain, Velani," she sighed, ducking so far down that her cowl shielded her face in shadows. "Their faces have not changed. My return will not sway their hearts."

"But you're grateful to be back?"

She nodded once, rising over the rune-paved steps towards the grandest home thatched from the bark of old aravels - landships - and torn sails. The public monestary. Angled in the likeness of a chipped boulder, many rose lattices crawled along its spines and shoulders. Birds roosted in the quiet rookeries adorning its crannies and smoke rose from the chimney stacks in high waves.

Baby halla grazed by the doorstep, only baying the new visitors a kindly sniff before returning to their pastures. Velani knocked on the Keeper's door once. Inside they passed through lilac silk and entered into a place filled with the smokey aroma of candled incense and pelted rugs. Lahris shrugged off her mantle, hooking the hood over a bent wicker armchair.

While Velani walked further inside, Lahris wandered over to the shivering flames of a fireplace and bowed to rub her hands in its heat. Shadows of animals quivered over the mantle. An antlered halla figurine, bowed wolf, dashing hare, wide-winged owl, twin ravens joined by a branch… _altars to the pantheon._

Her fingers plucked the birds to observe the patterning spirals cut into their conjoined wings. Her mind recalled a time sat by that fire with the ravens in hand, listening to the ballads her Keeper sung throughout the long winters accompanying their land. Her smile was small when it was returned to its place. A finger nudged it left, making its seat perfectly symmetrical to the rest.

Another set of fingers took to one of the gods. The bowed wolf. "Fen'harel," she answered, knowing the questions darkening her fellow apostate's features. "The trickster god. That is what the Sahlin believe."

"As do all Dalish, it seems."

"Maybe, though their creation story is slightly different. Are you familiar with it? It is quite the legend." Her gaze flickered to the flames, where they continued to dance, brandishing her tanned complexion in summery tones. "Long ago, there were two clans that watched over the People. The benevolent Creators and the sinful Forgotten Ones. Where the Creators strived to help the People, the Forgotten Ones sought to tear them asunder, one will at a time. When the humans attacked, Fen'Harel made a truce, for he was deceitful and cunning like the wolf.

"He told each the other had forged a weapon to end them. He told the Creators it was forged from the heavens, and told the Forgotten Ones it was hid in the abyss. And when the gods sought them out, he tombed them all in the Beyond. Thus, he ended the People's future and left them to the hands of the humans. I am told the Dalish in other lands burn wolf pelts to scare away the trickster. Some even pay sacrifice…"

Upon Solas' deepening scowl, she gently touched his shoulder. "You do not believe that tradition?"

He kept his voice low, but she could sense the ire in his tone. It made her ears twitch in interest. "I simply do not make it a practise to give legend the weight of history. So many histories are warped over the centuries. How is this creation story any different?"

Lahris faltered. "I- suppose it isn't…" She sighed, feeling the fire's heat rise and fall as her hand swept over the flames. "Here, they believe Fen'Harel locked the gods away for their own safety. They believe that Fen'Harel originally sought to protect them, but when the gods found that the People were in trouble, he knew that the humans would win, and so end his brethren. And so he did what a father would do if his children were in danger. But with the Creators gone, the Forgotten Ones took a rise to power.

"So Fen'Harel also trapped them away from the People, and in doing so willingly spared them from their destruction. But he caused the end of the elves by other hands. And he did so with a mournful smile."

"From compassion stems the foolish of minds, weakest of souls," echoed wisdom through the hall, by a mage whose noble sentiments sprang like embers through the chimney. Lahris stared at the Keeper having fallen mute, for melancholy clutched her lithe neck tight. "Fen'Harel greets us every third quarter-moon. He is a testament to a god's fallen mercy. We strive to learn and grow as the Brecilian, but do not let our hearts will our minds. Mind over feeling, always. That's how we survive."

Solas scowled at the words born from the great bear of an elf before him. Though dressed in a unique type of robed finery for a Dalish Keeper, his manner of standing held an elder regalness to it that not many men, nor elves, possessed. It was a proud standing, much like Solas' own, only aided by the woven cane in one veined hand. His left leg did not crinkle at the knee. Fused, set and arthritic. The other would go some day.

"A noble seminment from a story filled of half-truths."

"Yet we strive to learn the fullest truth that can be found, Solas."

The apostate's eyebrows drew close. "How did you come by my name?"

The Keeper curled a finger in, whacking his cane before his toes and using its orbed pommel to lean forward. "I listened through the doorway, lad. Curtains rarely hide the noise I'm afraid."

"Ah."

The Keeper groaned in the sudden embrace of a hug that was far too swift for even he to have seen it coming. Ash never smelt so good. Lahris wound her arms tighter, clutched his higher back with kneading fingers.

She rose and fell with his hearty bellow, and closed her eyes when his hand came to pet her hair. " _Aneth ara_ , Elgar'shiral! Lass, you have been far as of late. But it does these old bones good to know you are here safe."

Lahris smiled, wiping a stray tear with her sleeve and slowly leaving the warmth of her mentor. "Keeper Athron… _adaran atish'an_ ," she bowed. "You look well. The herbs staved the illness?"

"As well as Sylaise herself could have brewed, my dear. But, tell me what brings you here. Am I correct in thinking you have been cured?"

Her smile quivered momentarily. He frowned deeply. "I feared as much." Having seen the others in her company, he gradually returned to full height. "So, you have returned our hunter and brought an outsider to our midsts. Velani mentioned your clever-man. Is this true? Do you wish to learn from us?"

Before Solas could answer, Lahris interjected. "I may have lied. It is not wisdom we seek, Keeper. It is more. I wish to speak with you alone. There's much to discuss."

A wary glint crossed the Keeper's face. Tapping his cane twice, he bayed everyone to leave the monestary other than her and carefully sat in his wicker chair amongst the flames. "Tell me all then, my dear. You have my undivided attention."

She told him all that had transpired since her leave. Of the Inquisition, of the fires at Hillbreach, and of the lack of understanding in her curse.

Though she did not mention her journeyings in the Fade, nor of her vision that brought her there. Through it all Keeper Athron listened, worrying the bark beneath his fingers until a small pocket had grown in their place.

He sighed heavily at her ending, rubbing his bristled upper lip. "You know more of that temple than any other, dear one. You've seen the horrors that dwell within. My hunters have only scratched the surface since your departure. We've found derelicts in smaller areas, as you have seen around you. Our clan is growing, but we are running short on the materials our forefathers possessed. I wonder why you wish to go back there. You did promise yourself, yes, 'never again?' Or did my old ears deceive me?"

"They did not, Keeper."

"Then what's changed, lass? Something is different with you. I see it in the fires."

She sifted through the ash with a poker, watching the flames prance to her leisure. "I do not wish to die."

"And you fear this will happen should you not get your cure. You sense it's in that decrepit place, don't you?" He extracted a curious flask from his inner breast pocket, dangling the amber liquid towards the firelight before indulging in a long swig. "Why is it that the Creators choose to put the answers to our prayers in the bowels of hells instead of lush fields woven in wheat?"

A scent of rotten beeswax filled the room. Lahris gagged, smothering her nose with her sleeve. "Dirthamen preserve me, what is that smell, Keeper?!"

"A little concoction to stem the tide, lass. The basics, truly. Honey, elfroot… blood lotus… _deathroot."_

"Deathroot? But that is poison!"

"Last time I saw you, you could barely concoct a stew never mind a health poultice. Alchemy is not your forte, so I'd suggest keeping the judgment to yourself. The last I need is for the lovely lass Velani to hover over me like a babe-less crone." His grin twisted into a grimace. The fireplace shivered in his spit. "Damnable slime! I… never said I was any good at it."

Lahris shook her head, smiling. _He will never learn._

Then, all of sudden his mien twisted somber. "If you're serious on returning to that wicked place, child, I cannot stop you. That place is your history. T'is not meant for my eyes just yet. But you must be careful. Wolves have been seen delving within, and haven't been coming out."

"What do you mean, Keeper?"

He tapped her foot with his cane, beckoning her mind and ears to listen. "There's a dwarf in our borders. I had a mind to bay him farewell and let him be at the mercy of the wilds, but he spoke of the temple. He came across it, you see, with a merchant's wagon. Hoped to reap, plunder and spoil, the sodding fool. Seven dwarves went in. Only he came out."

"What did he say?"

"He spoke in wild ramblings. Took our healer three days to get any coherence from his tongue. But he spoke of voices in the halls, and death in the sanctum. Worse, he saw a spirit that spoke to him only once. It said…"

Keeper Athron hastily took her hand in his; traced small circles over her knuckles, watched her face uncertainly, for she saw he had questions, ones that perhaps even she knew not the answer of. "It called your name, child."

Her face paled. "My name?"

"Not the name we gave you. The name before your rebirth. _Var'sulahn."_

She jerked from his touch. Rose to meet the fireplace. The altar to Dirthamen cloaked the mantle in sister wings. Each raven stared at her through red-painted eyes, only for their left eye to wink green concurrently. Pain flared along her arm - swift - blistery. The black markings pulsed their hue, caught even underneath the cotton of her sleeves.

Lahris cupped her face, inhaling deep. "How, Keeper? We went together. No one survived the temple. Only I."

"The dead need no excuse."

He reached for her hand and kissed her knuckles. "I'm afraid I can offer little aid in your endeavour. The clan will not permit the gifting of supplies to you, other than food and water. You need not go, but something tells me you will. You never listen to reason."

She did not hear his words. Her mind was in the temple. Thoughts on the spirit. Her fingers twiddled with the hem of her gown while he tipped her chin up to catch the firelight. "The dwarf is in the courtyard. Speak to him before you go, Elgar'shiral. But please, be careful. There are many dangers to histories, just as there are worse things than what pride can bring."


	11. Dwarven Shambles

.

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Eleven: Dwarven Shambles

His name was 'Master Dwyvaris Durnoch,' merchant of a guild marked in curses from a pit in Denerim that he could barely pronounce. She caught all that information and more simply by overhearing his morning argument with a halla and orange.

Lain over a poorly thatched cot, there was little the small stump of a man could do but watch as the beast ripped his sack of goods asunder and delve into the fruit peels and flavourings.

It was truly unfortunate for him that he could not act on it other than waving his fists. There were no bumps under his blanket were legs should have been, only thicker, smaller stumps. "Get outa here you ignorant shrew! Away with you! Away!"

The halla raised its snout, blinked profusely and sneezed.

The dwarf cringed, folding the blanket up to his hairy neck. "Damnation! No one's going to want to eat those oranges now… unless…" He glanced warily around the courtyard, cringing away when his glimpses landed on the dark-haired elf staring at him with a too bemused scowl. It could only warrant trouble.

"Mother Stone, I-I was only jesting, m'lady. I would never…" he chuckled, wafting his fist again for the halla to flee - it did not, "never sell rotten goods. No! No, miss that isn't what the Durnoch Family Supply is for, no miss. Though I swear the oranges lower in the sack are completely satisfactory for your purchase, if- _well_ \- do you like oranges?"

Lahris crinkled her nose. The smell was so strong it nearly had her eyes watering. _No_ , she thought, _I do not._

The dwarf licked his lips at her quietness, returning to shoo the halla away from his merchandise. "Come on, ram! Please just leave what little I have alone…" He groaned, rubbing the dust and grime from his cheeks and red-forked beard. "And this is how it ends. No legs, no dignity, just a small sack of oranges that even that creature has taken from me. Ancestor's bones, I'm damned."

"Damned?" the elvhen blinked, gesturing to the deflated sack. "How do you survive on only oranges?"

"Good salesmanship and a whole lot of Durnoch ingenuity is the secret to my trade, m'lady. Shame the family crest ends in the dirt, as it were. And look at these," he groaned, whacking the end of his cot with an oar-like arm, "they're gone too! If I'd known I'd lose more than just my stock in that blasted ruin, I'd have turned around and gone straight back to Denerim. Now my guards are gone, my supplies lost… while there's a damnable spirit perhaps gawking at us right now, laughing at my misfortune. Well, I'm a fighter, I am. I'm gonna go back there, take my supplies and teach that hag what it's like to cripple a dwarf!"

"You barely had much of a leg to keep anyway, shemlen. Truth be told. Could you even climb stairways?"

The dwarf bristled. "What kind of knife-eared question was that, ey? Oh, I see. I see how it is. Couldn't just let the cripple mourn in peace. You had to come and take a chunk out of me as well. This, this is why I don't deal with your kind in the alienages, rabbit. Too damned proud, even when you're living in the sticks."

Lahris offered him a hesitant smile. She caught the halla by the snout, coaxed it to one side and snapped a thread of twine from the spindle beside her. Sewing the breach closed, she dragged the sack to his cot, smiling further when his stubby fingers closed over the knot.

"The halla are curious creatures but they are gentle. Keep this close and they will not bother you further. Until you sleep, at least."

One opal eye swept down her form, from grey tunic and amber shawl to the leather waist-belt and mossy skirts. The badge of the Inquisition glinted bronze on her chest, though the intensity of his eye had her shiver. Lahris crossed her arms and shied away, even when an unknown humour caught his beard, causing a pearly grin to flash through the bristles. "Heh, much obliged. Doesn't mean I forgive ya, though."

"I would not dream of it, _durgen'len_. But I do require a favour."

"You're not a debt collector, are ya? If so, you might as well kill me."

She smiled, shaking her head. She spread her mantle over a wiry grass bed and sat by his cot, folding her legs together. "I am interested in the temple you found. The clan has known of it for ages but never set foot inside. I am going to go there soon, but I am not quite sure what to expect. You have seen this spirit for yourself. Do you know what it looked like? What it wished? Tell me all you can, Dwyvaris, and I shall make arrangements for you to come with me so you can retrieve your supplies. Unless you would like us to retrieve them instead-"

"No!" he interrupted, grinning sheepishly when her eyebrows arched. "No need, m'lady. You'd never get it all. Might miss half the stock. Alright, if you can get me into that cursed place, I'll tell ya everything. Just, don't leave me behind, ye?"

Dwyvaris Durnoch spent most of the morning brandishing her with his tale, with eloquent gestures of heroism and destiny. He had originally sought a short-cut north back to Denerim, but did not wish to risk bandits along the road. Though armed with mercenaries, he theorised travelling through the forests would be an easier calling. And so he wandered the paths with his company, only stopping to camp for the night. When one of his men returned on news of a ruin, he took up the opportunity to "explore" and "adventure," though Lahris expected it was more in the way of finding valuables he could cart back home to sell.

He mentioned the ruin being dark, dismal, but otherwise free of spiders. Though one by one his men did not return, and he was left alone to fend off the darkness, that he described as "madder than a lord caught screwing." She did not truly understand that expression, even when the dwarf wiggled his brows and gestured to an arrow and sheathe.

"And what of the spirit?" she asked, elbows on knees and hands beneath her chin.

The ginger dwarf instantly blanched. "Beyond terrifying, m'lady! One moment I was swinging my axe, daring it to come at me with its razor-like jaws! But it must have snook up from behind, for the last I remember was blacking out entirely. I barely remember waking until the dawn rose over my eyes like Andraste herself was urging me, 'survive, Dwyvaris! Survive! All will be lost without you!' So I scrambled, I did. I clawed. I shimmied. Andraste herself showed me the way with the sun as her face, the trees her neck, the mountains her breasts-" he coughed, "Your Dalish must've found me later but my supply was lost. And I am a poorer merchant for it."

Her shoulders slumped forward and a frown tugged at her lips. "So, you never saw what actually took you then."

"Now, now wait just a moment there, lady. There is something." Dwyvaris fingered his snubbed nose, itching a nostril and groaning deep. "It said- darn it, what did it say? Far mule ran! No, no, varse fool damn. No, no…"

"Was it _Var'sulahn_?"

He clicked his stubby fingers. "You can bet my left buttock it was, miss. Though what it means, I haven't a clue, honestly. Sounded gibberish to me. Maybe elf speech."

Lahris nodded once, then rose from the ground. She bowed curtly. " _Mas serannas_ , Dwyvaris. I will see what the Dalish can do with your lack of legs. They are very good at crafting aravels. Perhaps they can use that for you."

She turned to leave, only before she mangaged to make any real progress the dwarf had called her back. "There might be one more thing you ought to know, lady. I remember a portrait in the keep."

She turned to face him again, with green eyes taking in his measure. "A portrait? Of whom?"

He squinted in the shade of the old oak tree, twiddling his knotted beard as if truly seeing her for the first time.

"Of you, lady."

~~o~~

Lahris always liked nature.

She had been born a nobleman's daughter in her time, in a place with a name no longer known to any scribe. If she squinted just right she could imagine her father's pavilion. Initially stone crafted into intricate curves, marbled in a variety of mosaic colourings that would have a rainbow flush in jealousy.

There were tall redwoods strung across a valley from close to distance, a garden harbouring gatherings of crystal grace with shadows dappling tinkling streams. Ramps strung from the earth connected the lands together and magic twined through the branches, keeping an air to the world that granted utter contempt.

She raised a hand over the post beside her, imagining a bloom of pink flowers on the other side. A writing desk would have been the central ornament. Her sister would often use it as a study. Closing her eyes, she could almost smell the scent of honey and ginger. Las'enasal had always chosen that perfume when courting the lords by her family's estate. Though granted with many suitors, Lahris had always been the one to drive them away.

She smiled at the memory of her sister's own confession of love. Her own idyllic dalliances were the same in every way, bright and naive. Yet she never quite realised when patronising her. If only she had listened to her own words.

Those times were long gone. Sat along the wooden parapet walk peering out over the lower forest, legs dangling over the balustrade, she had come to realise that nature was always the same. It was only the people that changed.

Planks creaked under foreign pressure on the ironwood. Lahris watched the shadow cross her with a hand inching ever closer to her staff, though there was no need. It was the apostate. He peered over the Brecilian calm and complacent. Though robed his skin radiated over the rampart, and she had to wonder if she would have to cover him up in bandages to prevent the wild creatures from seeking him out as a tasty morsel.

She laughed at the mere thought, causing him to cast his gander her way. "May I ask what amuses you so, _da'len_?"

Lahris drew a knee up to her chest, smirking. "You would not understand even if I told you, _hahren_."

He arched his brow once, his own small smile rising over his confusion. "I've had the privilege of meeting your Keeper personally."

"And? Was he how you expected?"

The elf crinkled his nose. "He was… not what I expected."

"You mean he listened to you."

"Yes. Though I doubt my words held much sway. Even open to listen I doubt he will ever adhere to them. It was probably purely wasted breath in the long run."

"I never took you for an elf to give up so easily, Solas."

Her gaze caught the shimmer of a pool not far through the undergrowth - a grove of ancient evergreens brooding over waters black and cold. She had found Assan in those waters once, drowning in the bog. It was her poor hunting instincts that caused a tumbling fall into a nearby brook. Drenched in mud as foul as dung, it was not one of her finer moments.

Her focus shifted to the canopy. Above to the east the foreboding shift of cloud presented far hills and small mountains cornering them from the sea. Birds fled from the cliff to the Brecilian often, though they seemed to be the only life that came from such a place.

"You know I caught my curse searching an old ruin?"

Solas nodded.

"The temple is here. Far away enough to be a two day journey but still very close. After I found the relic, the Keeper and his huntersman found me and helped me back to health. I hardly had any understanding of who or what the Dalish were. To me they were just elves in fur skins. It was only when I spoke to Keeper Athron that they made sense."

She heard the tap of his staff hit the floor. Solas lowered to sit by her side, his own legs crossed. "That's why you brought me here."

 _Partly_. "You could barely find anything on the curse I harbour, _hahren_. I thought, if you saw the ruin yourself, you might find a way to cure it, or at least stem the pain."

His features turned sympathetic. "Does it still cause you pain?"

Her right hand swept over her left arm, catching it at the fold. It had continued to hurt ever since she left Skyhold. "There is supposedly a spirit in those ruins as well. I know I'm not strong enough or knowledgeable enough to deal with it. You could."

"Ah, so that's why you wanted me here."

"Amongst other reasons," she muttered, drawing her sleeve further over her arm. The mere sight of the black marks had her gut churning uneasily. "There was a dwarf who went there. The spirit… hacked both of his legs off in the fight and left him to crawl out of the ruin barely alive."

Solas blinked. "Hacked off?"

"To the little stumps he now has, yes."

A fear caught his eyes, as if hoping that very incident would not taint her view on spirits. "Spirits do not wish to harm the living, _da'len_. They are curious, brilliant creatures that would never resort to violence unless provoked."

"Then we are dealing with a demon."

"A bloodthirsty one at that, I fear."

Lahris swallowed thickly. The spirits in her time had been far more pleasant, organising libraries and filling apothecaries with troves of lyrium. One had even guided her home once, lost in the forests as a child. To see what spirits were in the present day, of their revolting other visage truly unsettled her. The elves of her time would have seen her new world as an utter nightmare. But she had been through a nightmare before and survived.

"You will not leave me alone in that ruin, will you, Solas?" she asked, ignoring the hiccup of fear that slipped through her words.

It took Solas a moment to register her request, but when the understanding came, pity shined in those deep grey eyes. "I would never."

She nodded thoughtfully, reaching out to take his hand. It was only a small gesture. A caress of flesh, nothing more to her. But it caused his fingers to still when through hers, like the object of touch at all was foreign to him. Just as it had been for years to her. But she needed the contact. She needed to feel the truth in his veins. The promise in his pulse. She needed to know that what he promised was true. To be left alone in the sanctum would only consequent her death.

"Then we go at dawn. Thank you, _hahren_. For everything."


	12. A Mighty Fall

.

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Twelve: A Mighty Fall

It seemed as if they had been travelling for years.

She was sure Solas knew maps as well as anyone, perhaps even better than a lone vigilante in the wilderness. Two days spent on a wild track. Two days of using a poorly painted map the Dalish provided just in case Lahris lost her way, had finally had his head reeling sore. She could tell.

The humorous part of it all was that the Dalish created the map in knew the forest as innately as one of the living trees. They needed no parchment to find their way home.

Certainly, she tried to keep her good humour down in his presence, but the creasing of his brows and the snort of indecision as the map crinkled this way and that, had her cheeks burning plum.

It was worse with the dwarf's attempt to wheel his cart into riverside dales, fens and bogs. Jaras and Velani had to carry him to calmer sides. It was the way his arms soared between them like a flabby bird bulging at the waist belt that keeled her over, her laugh so mountaneous that tears sprang from her eyes. Songs of his flight stirred the crows that truly could fly from their nests.

Lahris half wondered through her pants if it was worth the Dalish carpenters constructing the wheeled chair from the spare parts of aravels. But the way he chased after them like a sturdy steed proved it was the moral choice. As for all his effort, Dwyvaris Durnoch seemed more than pleased with himself.

The company happened upon the steep foot of a mountain when the world turned still and grey.

Though being known as a mountain, the incline itself was more of a rocky mound. It was smaller than most. Its peek only snowed when the first frosts of winter took claim to the land. Nevertheless, taller it was than any oak, fir or evergreen within the forest. It was the hidden crown of Ferelden.

Like any crown it had sceptres, once, jewels a-plenty. Minarets that met the very clouds. Eluvians that dotted its cliffs in interconnecting ramps that no longer claimed its breadth.

The ruin she sought lay inside such a beast, and like the outside, she feared the golden glamour had withered to dust.

They continued their travel on foot through the grandest of thickets, choosing to head away from the overgrown paths and to instead follow the light of the sun blotching through the mass of nature above them. Shades danced between them like crossing swords.

"I'm surprised the ruin still exists," announced Solas, one leg bent over the top of a risen root - his focus forward. "Or that others have not attempted to claim it sooner."

Velani rested beneath the netted fingers of an elder oak, seated on a stone layered in moss. Her bow of well-wrought wood lay across her lap, and she polished the grain along its rind with a jar of oils. "Wouldn't suppose a flat-ear would understand. The forest? T'is cursed, t'is it. Ancient curses. Only we elves can live under Ghilan'nain's sacred safely. And even then we see the wolves hunting us at night. They just never come to the door."

"The temple used to be cloaked with a spell, or so the Keeper explained," Lahris added, nibbling on a piece of salted venison. "The mountain as well. Now, the spells have withered away." _Like so many other things._

Dwyvaris cursed when his wheeled chair rocked down the hill. His mount collided into a neighbouring stump and he lugged a shaggy arm over his brow, sighing when the stench of sweat filled the valley.

"Didn't stop me from finding the wretched place," he gasped, only calming once a skin of water downed his throat.

He threw the empty flask away, spitting flem into a patch of grass. "Ancestors used to say the stone was in our blood, as the first children and all. Guess some of that sense stuck to me. That's all I can describe of it. Doubt I'd have found it otherwise."

"Do you ever miss life beneath the earth, master dwarf? The call of the stone?" Solas inquired.

The dwarf ruffled through his beard with a finger, itching at the whiskers so studiously that the horde of a dwarven thaig could very well spring out raining gold. "Stone? Err, never knew it. I'm not an under-dweller, ser elf. Born and raised on land, I am! The brightest of the Durnoch clan this here topside! Nope, never saw the mighty majesty of my kin but whose to say underground is better anyway? How could I miss something I never believed I had? Only a sixth sense, I have. And even that I'm not quite sure on."

The elf looked away, disappointed. "A pity."

"Do elves miss the life of… err…what is it you elves miss again? Frolicking in the forests?"

Solas scowled. "We do not frolock."

" _Oh_?" the dwarf winked, the mischievous glint in his eyes dying in Solas' lengthening glare. "Oh. That's not what I heard back home. Though I could've sworn the elf was on something.. hmm… should never trust a brothel wench…"

From the outskirts Jaras called from the height of a distant evergreen, "Can't seem to find a ruin! You're sure we're going the right direction?'

Lahris nodded once, turning her attention to their surroundings. Something within their camp told her that they were close. Very close. She could not quite describe it other than a feeling of returning home. Then her eyes caught a familiar arch in the valley.

It was only enhanced by Solas' own shift in curiosity, his mutter of, "I can sense a great power here," acknowledging what she saw.

Leaving her post to fumble through weed and fern, her legs walked on their own accord as if another were guiding her steps. Dried leaf beds fell to paved stone. From bushes ascended walls wrapped in lichen. Just like her dream, there was a mouth to the ruin. Only it lay tucked between two boulders with a sheet of hanging moss shielding it from the world.

Lahris glimpsed around the grove, finding the edges of stone that had given way to a cliff once upon a time. There were statues of elvhen, bow in hand, that had been severed over the ages. Only fragments of their craftsmanship remained buried in the clutches of the Brecilian.

It had been over a thousand years, but she had returned to the temple as a visitor once again.

Weariness caused her mind to pause when she pulled the moss to one side. There was a split between the boulders. A crevice leading into the very roots of the mountain. The comfortable ease that ceased her nerves from bundling felt wrong. In her dreams she had been positively terrified of the ruin. Many nights she had awoken quivering in her bed with her pillows wet from tears and sheets drenched in sweat. Strangely in that moment she felt nothing at all. That in itself should have worried her. Instead, it urged her onward.

Inside there was no light. Only a darkness that rivalled the Deep Roads. Behind, daylight distanced into a flickering candle flame. Ahead, stray hands grazed prickly walls cold with moss and a hundred years of humus ran thick under their bare toes, consuming the taps of their feet. Though the dripping of water echoed deeper in, and the groans of the dwarf's wheeled contraption swallowed all other noise.

In the wave of a hand a small wisp of light materialised from the Fade to guide their way. Lahris watched the wisp playfully bounce from wall to wall, rising high when the hall ascended to a high vaulted ceiling, and down again to circle her. It came to rest over Solas' left shoulder, gently nuzzling the fur pauldron draping his tunic.

Some believed wisps themselves were smaller essences of spirits. They just lacked the consciousness of intrinsic thought. Seeing how it interacted with those around like a child, Lahris understood how one came to see the similarity.

It hovered over her wrist gingerly, only resting when her hands freely opened. Solas watched her reactions with a gentle smile.

Eventually the hall ended with no where else to turn. Walled torches were lit on each of the three faces and a podium stood just behind them. It was a square-based sceptre ringed at its pinnacle by eight sharp petals. On its surface was a design laced in lyrium. One of etched elven script that glowed even more in the wake of rising veilfire flames.

Solas's hand shaded the light momentarily. Green spells washed over the altar like mist, as he waited for it to imbue the ancient mechanism, access its secrets and wake its heart. Only the lyrium remained a vibrant blue. The podium did not move at all.

When Lahris raised her hand over its dial and circled the runes with a finger, the podium responded in a blissful light, transcending and ethereal. Rune stones tiled along the floor glittered in answer. One by one the plates descended into the floor, carving a spiral stairway around the podium's base.

"This was Dirthamen's temple," Lahris informed in wistful pride. "As Falon'Din's reflection he was the maker of secrets. There will be many more around here. Somewhere."

Solas regarded his student with an intrigued vigilance. He tested her knowledge with his own. "In ancient times they called him the Harbringer of Whispers. Tales of Dirthamen's lust for the unknown were as few as the truths of his mirrored visage. But fewer still were tales of his deceit and trickery."

Her fingers twitched over the podium, her answering shudder causing his riled lour to soften pitifully. "Deceit? Trickery? I'm not sure what you mean."

"I'm not surprised. You never believe a bear cub vicious until you turn your back. By then it is all too late."

"And what were your sources? You cannot have seen those in the Fade, _hahren_ -"

"There is much the Fade tells, _lethallan_. You simply have yet to open your mind and allow the truth to be seen."

Her lips firmed direly, and voice spat acid. "Being cultured is not closed minded! And to believe the gods were not all the monsters you believe them to be only shows how biased you are to the ancestors. You can teach me many things, _hahren_. I truly treasure it, but to twist my faith will not be one of them."

"If only that were true. Then I could simply overlook the death and destruction that followed them. But no, history cannot be warped by faith alone. Though it might should the ignorant continue to disregard the truth.

"Enough bickering the both of ya!" commanded Dwyvaris. "Do you know where we are? That sort of lallygagging was what killed my guards and had my legs cut clean off! Now shut it the pair of you. We need to concentrate on finding my supplies- I- _I_ mean the cure to your condition, m'lady. Blessed be my manners."

"Why do you care for a cart of oranges anyway, dwarf?" inquired Velani, whom towered over the smaller man in intimidating stature. Even he for all his tales squirmed under her baring like a babe caught mid-swindle.

"My livestock is all the fruit I labour for. How'd you like a human taking your prized pelt, huh? No damned spirit is gonna take my labour, elf. And that's the truth of it."

Jaras flinched when the stairway spat dust into the hall. He raised his bow to the hole, nervously fiddling with the pigeon feathers along the arrow's shaft, even when the bristles tickled the edge of his square jaw. "Can we just agree that magically opening doors aren't creepy at all? Yes? No? Back me up here, Da'mi. Stairways don't just open from the ground!"

"Getting cold feet, brother?" Velani grinned, twirling down into the open abyss with her polished bow armed at her side. "Wait until the clan hears of the hare you've become. What women will lay with you then, Jaras? Maybe the old and frail. They may take your trembling like a leaf for courage with their poor eyes and deafly hearing."

"That depends, lass, do you like rabbit?"

"Only wolves," she chuckled, each tone of merriment fading into the temple's shadows.

Delving into the depths of the unknown, it seemed that the wisp Solas carried would be their only light source. But when the air turned musty, torches of veilfire seeped through the darkness.

"What manner of fire are these?" Velani asked, having seen the cold flames burn before in the hall but to see them so close had her hands inching towards the mounted braziers.

Solas snatched her wrist just before she did, frowning deeply when she wrenched herself free. "It is ancient magic. A memory of flame that appears when the Veil is weak. Even as a memory it can still scold your skin. Be careful."

"The day I need aid from a flat-ear is the day the forests run red in flame, shem. Remember that."

Lahris passed the veilfires by with only sadness. For she saw the splatters of old-aged crimson staining their handles and winced at the crunch of bone under her heels.

She tore a piece of cloth from one handle and examined the intricate threads it still bared.

 _Parts of a cowl or skirt? There is no way to tell anymore._

She tied the knot around her wrist, only to be surprised when it meshed with the remainder of her clothes quite fittingly.

 _Does this mean I am to be like the dead? Or that I carry the last of their memory?_

The stairway levelled to a passage of ancient corridors with statues of priests and banners guarding the sanctum from spoils. There were gouges in the ceiling, debris along the floor, bookcases and pedastals that were little more than imprints in the sand.

Below the surface world the entire chasm had been completely segregated from life itself. Cool air dried the previous day's sweat from their brows, wafting from half-guessed fissures in the rocks.

As the passages continued onward an unsettling chill creeped up Lahris' spine. It swept up her legs, bundled under her robe, peaked out of the crinkle at her neck and caught the hairs at the nape.

She raised a hand to her shoulder. Felt ice nip her fingers. Frost had gathered over her shawl in clumps. She blanched, tearing it from her person and wringing the ice from the material in manic throws.

Jaras grasped her shoulder gently.

She growled, eyes warning of murder, " _Vara em, shemlen!_ "

The curse echoed down the passageways. Ended at those drowned in rubble. Feeling the anger dissipate as swiftly as it came, Lahris raked a hand down her face and shrugged the shawl back around her. "I am sorry, Jaras. This place just gets to me."

He scratched the back of his neck, and nodded. _He must think me mad. Perhaps I am to be back in this place._

The passage turned a striking corner and through the foundered graves of once great doors, the Inner Sanctum rose to greet them in earnest. It was little to how Lahris had remembered it. Once polished in gleaming silver strips along the pillars and as grandiloquent as a cathedral roofed in tremendous, reflecting gold: eluvians once whole had walled the corners between pillars and walkways; under stairways both level and above, and on paths that clung to the higher walls. It was a time when gravity had changed its nature to allow the monks to walk the sides as if the correct way up.

She had remembered walking those stairways once and peering up to see the elder clerics passing through bubbled groves above her, though they themselves walked upside down.

Now the stairways were cracked remnants of an ancient labyrinth that had succumbed to the will of aging. Gravity once set by different rules now had one code. One way down. The sanctum had collapsed because of it, with the domed ceiling rustic, dented. Not even the books had survived the disaster, left in a flurry across the stone, littered under spindleweed or simply a faded mark where great literature once lay.

Fear had finally caught Lahris Elgar'shiral, for she tasted the bitter tang of magic in the air and spied burned imprints along the floor where elvhen once stood. The Inner Sanctum had been a battlefield. And she was the only survivor.

"I have no knowledge of this place," muttered Solas, standing in dubiety under the entrance arch.

He waved his staff across the walls in the hope of finding some tapestry or script to help his understanding. Only the scripts etched into the tiles were warped in undulations, making the very history completely illegible to even him.

"Trust the god of secrets to keep his findings hidden even to this day. There are protective spells all over this hall. The reason for this temple's downfall will not be clear here. We must press on."

Jaras pointed to the stairways rising up the walls. "Why're they made that way? Surely no one could walk sideways up, could they?"

"In ancient times little was impossible. Even feats that distorted reality itself could be done with very little effort. Shifting the physics of nature was as natural as breathing to the elvhen. But since the fall of the People, you will find that such wonderful actions are no longer possible."

Velani's grip on her bow hardened. "And t'was all because of Fen'Harel. He took everything from us. Even the ability to fly…"

Solas raised a hand, hoping to silence her with a brusque wave. "Not necessarily fly-"

"The ancestors could walk the very walls like a spider, shem. If they could do that, then by the graces of June, they could do anything. Why not fly like a bird if they wished? Or swim in the seas with the water-beasts?"

The apostate sighed to himself, pinning the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "I suppose we will never know."

He spun a finger over his staff's orb, crackling the shadows in luminous waves. Closing his eyes, he listened carefully to the patter of water seeping from the walls, and from patches of disturbed debris raining from the temple's supports. He reopened his eyes in a flicker of shore and sea, cradling his magical instrument tightly when the magic receded into the crystal.

"I sense no spirits here," he said, looking back to Lahris. "If it was once here, it has long since gone."

"Then I suppose we should go our separate ways, shem," Velani said, peering down into the tunnel of a stray archway. She nodded inside. "Might take us all day just to find this dwarf's lost cargo, and Andruil knows the Keeper wants him gone as soon as able. Come on, dwarf. Roll your way inside."

Dwyvaris cursed under his beard before adhering to her command, squeaking along into the darkness. Only Jaras remained, alert and twitching. He watched Velani disappear with a shy flicker of worry catching his long face, drooping his even longer ears.

As if sensing a rift, Solas intervened. "There is no spirit here. If you wish to keep your friend and the dwarf company, know that we will be here. I will take care of her," he said, gesturing to Lahris a nod.

The hunter gave him a guarded glare before returning his attention to the corridor leaving the sanctum. "You better," he warned, glancing back to ensure she was safe. He then fled into the temple, leaving her and Solas alone.

Lahris watched him go in a quiver of shaggy fur, smiling to herself. His relationship with Velani had always been complicated, but he had always held a fondness for her that went beyond the other Dalish.

 _How could he not?_ she thought, her small smile waning to an envious lour.

Velani was beautiful in a fierce, simplistic way: a head bright in golden locks, a body hardened in flesh and muscle. Years of hunting in the wilds had granted her the most slender physic that all Dalish males fought to pine. Even the raised cicatrises were remiscient of battles, glory. The pinnacle of what the Dalish strived for. She was headstrong, fearless.

There was no doubt. She could have lived through the trials Lahris had and still not have lost her indomitable boldness. Lahris hadn't.

She tugged the cuff away from her wrist. Leered at the way her scars coiled in strands of ivy - her own little hex intended to eventually claim every inch of her. Even with such unsightly markings she knew some of her body was still a naked canvas, just waiting for the initial poison of a paintbrush. That in some mirrors when tilted far enough from candlelight she was still a different kind of beautiful. Though she was one that did not seem to hold as much sway as she had once upon a time.

From dimpled cheeks to a river of freckles falling down her chest like patters of darker rain. To skin liken to mossy redwood, and eyes the deepest jade. To breasts that had yet to lose their volume. To a waist slipping out to round curves.

Malnourishment had not taken all of her femininity. Even then, she could not remember a time since her wake that a man had been found interested.

So much had changed. Courting used to be so much more intricate. It was a dance of souls twined at the ankle. A slow paced stroll of gifts of wealth and promises of affection. Lahris had once received the most luxurious gown from one of her suitors. If only she had returned to the junior lord that night, instead of engross herself in court intrigue. Her life may have told a very different story.

It was Solas who broke her reverie. "Do you remember where you found your artifact, _da'len_? Was it on one of these alters? A podium perhaps-?"

She shook the memories from her mind, turning back in question. "Artifact?"

"Your shard?'

"It was…" An air of uncertainty drifted in through the air like the black sails of a sea wreckage veering through a misty sea calmed in unshaken moonlight. Torches of veilfire shivered by the entranceway. Their glimpses of Fade soon extinguished in whispers owned by the length of a hidden wing.

Darkness engulfed all, from the statues of royal monks to the mosaics morphing their texts from legibility. There was no longer the noise of shifting debris or whistling nooks. No rustle of bats in the ceiling joists. Just silence.

The apostate's staff pulsed in the ethereal glow of magic. Her own glowed just as brightly, but she immediately saw the shadow of worry pass across him: the sag of his shoulders, the fleeting frown. His own wisp dove under her shawl, shaking the ice from the fabric.

From the hidden depths of the Inner Sanctum icy fingers crackled along the rune stones, coating all in its way in sharp, pricking frost. It wormed up the banister, caught the cuff of her legs and dared to travel as a ghost of air up her skirts to the very tip of her neck. Lahris breathed in the misty form of a claw and shuddered.

 _"He knows who you are. Did you think he was swayed by your lies of this ruin? He has known your truth since he first culled the piece of divine from your flesh. Do you not believe? Look at him. Tell me what you see."_

At first her eyes roamed him in newfound curiosity. Handsome, she initially thought. Then wise. Layered in a crest of wolf fur, his robe of sage belted in juniper cotton was merely an aspect that made him unique to other elves. It was his own brand of identity, one that flayed with the whispers of dusty spells as he walked, manipulated the ground beneath his feet as the very Fade clung at the ankle. She saw a man wisened by years who held the regret of solidarity heavily upon his brow.

In the Dalish he had mocked and pondered in silent musing. There were times when she caught the subtle flare of a smile or huff of absurdity when children played by his campfire. In those rare moments she had seen the smile fall into sorrow, and his hand snare the jawbone threaded over the base of his neck.

 _"No,"_ urged the voice, _"gaze closer."_

The image before her begun to change. Oily branches coiled back from the foreline of his bald scalp, slipped into a groomed slick of auburn roots tied by a tether of ruby. A complexion liken to milk dulled to an ashen, silky contrast; youth that filled wrinkles of hardship. The black fur howled in its descent from his shoulders. In its place was an adopted sash of iridescent scales that gleamed from the remaining velvet.

Lahris inhaled a quivering breath. Felt her knees fall weak. Her staff slouched across the floor for steady purchase, clinking in time with the slow reveal of polished teeth.

He too was once beautiful to her eyes. Only the beauty of slender cheekbones curbed into slick deadly resin. The beauty of eyes the mirrors of honeyed wheat that gradually changed into a prairie set aflame. His own soft gold flecked in embers. No longer a valiant lord that ladies fawned for in the courts, was he. Instead, he grew from the darkness like a droplet of beautiful poison spreading through a chalice of wine.

He was the carnation of nightmares. Her nightmares. And he grinned at her with supple blue lips. _"Do you see now?"_

Solas was with Him all along. An agent of the most venemous, the most cunning, the most deceitful! He was the very visage that yearned for her screams, thirsted for her tears. Solas was him in all but name: a putrid speck on the world that dominated and corrupted.

Round his staff knuckles of blood cracked in the dark. One hand reached out. Beckoned come like the lapdog that she had been. He still believed it to be true.

 _"That's it!"_ screamed the voice in her mind, and all of a sudden her staff's branched head appeared all the more appealing. _"Make the cut clean. Let him drown the floors. Let the rats laze in his falsehood. Do it. I command you."_

A wing clipped the apostate on the shoulder, caused him to brand the wall behind him in lucid green.

His head shifted momentarily from hair to scalp, teasing her in flashes like a beacon. On where to hit her mark.

The traitor continued to search, clamping both hands back onto the cradle of his instrument of war. _"He will use it on you. Even now he formulates the unmarked grave. I can hear him. Outside the temple, you will be. By where the crossing twins lie. Where your spirit will forever face the ashes of your Dalish flooding into the skies."_

"No!" she screamed: anger and rage and fear wracking the hall with shame and desire. As the apostate turned her staff slashed down, hacking it's mark with a crack.

He groaned, one hand outstretched over the nearby banister. As wings lifted from the earth his concealment disappeared. A shaken hand clapped her mouth shut.

Her horror gaped before her. A terrifying vision of pooling blood, gurgling gasps, half-fluttering eyes. All she tasted was bitterness down to the very dregs of her soul. The mere thought had her writhe in terror. The sanctum rung in the clatter of her staff, the shatter of its gem. All thought on magic and Fade and dreams were gone. All of it.

With her back to the wall her legs gave way. She slapped the sticky pool knees first. The very substance clung to her robes: wet and warm and oozing.

Solas gave one last gurgle. Afterwards his hand squeaked down to the floor and red splattered her face.

In the depths of the Inner Sanctum her master announced his final squawk. Sleep, he bayed her, slipping icy fingers through her hair that instead of being terrifying, were surprisingly soothing. _"Sleep. Let your horrors leave you. Find comfort in my arms and be mine forever, Var'sulahn."_

Through torn cloth his bony fingers snapped to her chin, and he smiled deliciously down when her open lips waited to be taken. The last traces of magical light dimmed like cloud cast the sun.

It continued until all had withered and faded into a sightless, unfeeling dream.


	13. Bitter Sweet Dreams

.

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Thirteen: Bitter Sweet Dreams

"Ah, Sister. A pleasant noon, would you not say?"

Var'sulahn glimpsed a figure standing in the shade of the cloister. Her fingers slipped to another page and steadily raked the text in her lap with long nails. "A pleasant noon it is, _Lanalin Ghi'lan._ "

"This isn't the courts, sister. Formalities that standard are not required when in my presence," she quipped, arching a slender lip in good graces. "Glandival will do just fine when in my company. The last I need is to feel elder than my years."

Var'sulahn nodded, smiling. The holy mother since her first arrival into Dirthamen's Sanctum had always prided herself on being the less ceremonial of the god's devotees. The shy bangle of rustic teal poking from her robed anklet was as rebellious as she dared go. Even that symbol could consequent punishment.

Personal jewellery were not permitted in the monestary, for all that took vows were to leave their older life behind. Never to return. Her own little concealment always brought a smile to Var'sulahn's face. It reminded her that she was not yet one of the holy devoted, and could still hold family as a treasure.

She slipped a ribbon down the binder, and closed the tome before standing. Elder Glandival linked their arms together and began their walk from the pavilion. Beds of crystal grace clinked in the neighbouring orchards. Fountains of water glistened when wavering in the air, waiting for nearby insects to sate their first in the floating droplets.

"You are quiet this eve," she said. "Tell me, how faring are your studies?"

"They are going well, I think. I have read much on the ways of spiritualism. Though I have read much more on the natures of the ether."

"Spirits? That is where your ambitions lie, is it? Do tell, what forms strike inspiration? Is it knowledge in the arcane itself, or the untapped potential of your magic?"

"A little of both. The ways of spirits is fascinating, but as are the spells I could cast. Our magic is manipulation of spirit energy, yes? If I were to know more, does that mean I could cast more?"

"In theory, indeed. I see it in your eyes, Var'sulahn. Spiritual destruction, that is your calling. Dirthamen may be pleased. It was the filtered wish of the high priest that you continue with your studies. Your manipulation of the ice element has true mastery if you continue, as should your abilities with the raw Fade should your inner light kindle with that of the other realm. Not many wish this pursuit, you know. Your father himself preferred the arts of concealment."

Var'sulahn smiled sadly. "I always did wonder how he knew the power plays in the courts. He never did teach me his arts. It was more of my brother's calling."

"Because you were never destined to be the head of your house, dear sister. I believe he saw your young spirit fluttering and knew that your potential lay elsewhere. Much tragedy has happened to you in your short years, but it is my belief that all this happened to bring you to us. Here in this monestary your studies will flourish. You will be as brilliant as the higher priests, I see it now! You will grant honour to Dirthamen, and to your family. The secrets of the world are not meant for the lessers, sister. They are meant for the chosen of the gods. As are we blessed to be called such."

In the small bubble of Dirthamen's hidden world - one pocket of a hundred - waters lay still under the toes of learning students, while silvery films drifted ominously from all corners, spreading whispers of knowledge through the air. Away from the waters stood groves of brass trees capped in globed orbs. Flowers across a swamp-like expansion that were not dreary nor as poisonous in appearance to their natural likeness, but bright in iridescent sheens. Polished quartz petalled the branches like beaded dew, while the farther lands shuddered in the great roamings of tamed vaterrals.

Var'sulahn watched their gnarled legs seep into distant lakes. Grand beasts of magic they were. Creations of moss, bark and insect that upon first glimpse seemed abhorrent creatures, only to soften in clicking mews when granted an audience with their keepers.

Elder Glandival gestured to a cluster of priests by the entranceway to the Inner Sanctum: by a mirror with its glass distorted in swirls. "And have you thought on our invitation?"

Her student hesitated. "I have, Elder."

" _Glandival_ -"

"To join you all here would be… I cannot even describe it. I thank you, truly, for the request, I just-"

"Are not ready to leave your life behind yet," she finished with a knowing frown. Around her, a soft haze swept over the grounds like a fairy dream. Var'sulahn inhaled the scents of honeysuckle and instantly felt contempt. "I was the same when I was young. We ask much which is why we indoctrinate the young if we can. It makes the process easier to bare. We ask that you leave your pain, your sorrow, your hardship. We ask that you devote your learnings to our Lord and in return reap the rewards that knowledge earns us. Though much of your family are gone, you still have one that remains."

Var'sulahn turned her face away, though her small smile grew in earnest. _Yes, my brother still lives._

"Which is why we are willing to wait," the elder added, taking her shoulder in hand and turning her towards the eluvian.

The bubble of reality shifted instantly from soft grass and flower beds to tall halls of mosaic stonework. Within, the Inner Sanctum was heavily shadowed, lit by many veilfire braziers shimmering over pedestals. Hymns of prayer sounded from all sections of the temple and scriptures drifted from one segment of the higher libraries to the other, while the translucent shifts of spirits floated in between.

"Our Lord has granted you protection but it would praise him more to see you expand your knowledge and claim your place beside us. No matter how long that will take, he and we will wait. You, Var'sulahn, show promise to Dirthamen."

"As I hope to do him proud," she answered. "But I have been wondering what he has said about me. Has he spoken to the higher priest since my arrival?"

The Elder's features fell guarded. "The communion of our Lord with the high priest is very personal, sister. I only know what I'm told but his guidance was clear. To keep you protected until you transcend our halls. Be at peace. You are no longer owned to your seigneur any longer. This temple has stood for eons without the unholy breaching the sanctum. The location is secret. You are safe."

Her ears twitched on that word. _Safe_. It felt foreign. An illusion. Trickery by even those that honoured the gods. It had been so long since she could even turn in a corridor without fearing the lash of a whip. To be able to trust again was even harder.

 _Dirthamen would never betray me,_ she thought, fanning the worries away with a hand against her neck. _I can truly be free here. I can call this place home._

"So take your time on your answer. Still, remember, though your cause is not yet clear, that does not mean you have no duty to uphold. Dirthamen enaste sulevin. Our lord has a reason for your life."

"And I am grateful to take whatever opportunity he wishes of me in time. I swear it."

"Very good." The Elder's gaze shifted over her shoulder and a hidden delight caused her grin to widen. "There is a reason I brought you from your studies, you know. Your brother wishes to speak to you."

Var'sulahn clutched the neckline of her gown. "Hellathen? He has returned?"

"It seems he could not leave you for long, sister. I sent an emissary to bring him to us. He will not be long."

Delight had her eyes watering. She wiped her cheeks with a sleeve, leaping round when the doors to the sanctum rang open. From the archway her brother sauntered out from the robes and cowls: a man with the boldness of youth, yet with the look of a warrior who had witnessed ten years of war and did not let it mar his spirit. He took in the entire temple; eyes a steely grey, dull as the rapier sheathed at his thigh.

He did not have a chance to speak. For as soon as the veil-light caught his armoured jerkin and breeches, Var'sulahn enfolded him with an embrace as unyielding as a farmer to his last wealthy possession while his livelihood burned in a bandit's flames. Hellathen's chest rumbled beneath her ear and before she knew it the world was gone from her feet. The temple spun as the two rejoiced, laughing as one person before her feet returned to dusty floors.

He took her cheeks in both hands, his gaze ever-scrutinising, checking for scars. His gaze lingered on her vallaslin and lips fell sour. He turned to Elder Glandival and thrusted a scroll into her frail hands. "We're leaving tonight."

Var'sulahn took his shoulders warily, coaxing him to face her. "Leaving? Why, _lethallan_?" At his silence she plucked his chin and drew it close. "Hellathen?"

It was then that she noticed how truly older he had become. Dark circles rimmed his eyes that were stricken red in the whites. His brown hair had dislevelled from the bun, as if he had rode across the western lands to her dwelling rather than use the portals. Even his cheekbones were sunken, defined. In chainmail he appeared musclery, but beneath…

"You must trust me. This," he gestured with a gauntleted hand to the temple, "it isn't safe here anymore. I've been given a decree to remove you from this cult. There's a noble steading just across the water that can take us in, Var'sulahn. They're not supporters of Him, sister. We can rise from their family slowly, regain our nobility. We can work to return our family to the once proud name that it was. Isn't that what you want?"

She drew her hands away, folding them into her chest. "What do you mean? Hellathen, you are speaking madly. Our father… he… he's dead, brother. Our mother, our sister… we cannot rebuild anything. My master took it from us. This. Dirthamen's temple. It is all I have. I'm safe here. He cannot find me-"

"Damn it, Var'sulahn! Don't you see? I did not ride for fifteen moons just to come back to bay you hello! I came here because an army tracks this very land-"

"An army?" She took a step back, then another. "W-what army?"

Her brother's gaze softened. But before he could continue, Elder Glandival took her shoulder and passed the scroll into her quivering hands. Var'Sulahn did not have a chance to read the elvish. She could see the answer plain as day in her mentor's face. "He has… found me?"

Elder Glandival ushered her backward toward the southward corridor. "You must take her. Quickly. There is a path known only to few. It leads into the forest. It will keep you safe. I will gather the others. We will seal the halls and gather the sentinels."

"Sentinels will not be enough, I'm afraid," Hellathen said, grasping his sister's hand tight. "You underestimate them. They have warriors of the arcane, priestess. Those that follow the pantheon father. Elgar'nan."

The colour in the elder's cheeks vanished. "You are certain?"

"As certain as anything I've seen."

There was a grave pause, and then, "She must be saved. Do you understand?"

Her brother nodded once. He took her hand, dragged her across the hall to the possibility of freedom when the entire temple shuddered. Var'sulahn and Hellathen jerked by the stairway, grasping the balustrades while the entire temple quaked. Earth rained from the ceiling. Priests clawed for purchase on stone, while a great collapse filled the hallway beyond them.

Cries echoed beyond the sanctum's locked doors. A chorus of conflict that attempted to beat down the magical barriers. Gold flashed from the stairways - sentinels donned in the brightest armour flinging their staffs from their backs and casting wards to deter the possibility of demons from breaching the god's most holy.

Hellathen watched the mages clammer to the entranceway and Elder Glandival turn to them. A shadow of decision crossed his face and his hands let his sister go. He waved the priestess over and drew his rapier.

"Take her," he commanded. "We both know he won't desist until he has one of us. I might be able to buy her time, and you know this place far better than I. Take her. Take her far away. Run until you cannot stop running. Please. She is the future of our house now."

The entrance doors glinted as priests begun to pour their magic into a new ward meant to be binding, lasting. Unbreakable surely. They were Dirthamen's greatest devotees. Most had practised incantations for an era. No manner of lord could possibly outrank them. Yet He did.

A great weight shook the doors from the other side like a giant's fists. The ward crackled and spat. Magic seeped from the runes imbued into the doorframes like bloody lesions. It was at that instant that Var'sulahn, that Elder Glandival, that Hellathen and all the sentinels charged with guarding the sanctum knew all at once. They were not dealing with a simple lord in charge of a hundred elves. They were fighting the very Fade.

Var'sulahn clutched her brother's arm so tight she feared her hands would shatter. Yet it took one shove of his other hand to break their tie. When she leapt out again he drew his rapier's point to her throat, stilling her enough to freeze mid-stand. When the earth quaked once more, the elder yanked her from the floor and pushed her towards a banister. The last she saw was her brother courageously descending the stairway when the last knock shattered the hinges from the walls and a great mist flooded the sanctum.

The cries of battle thundered down the corridors Var'sulahn stumbled across. In each an elvhen shrieked venomously in her ears, " _Run! Run! Run!_ " The stone felt like molten rock beneath her feet: tearing, seering flesh from toes to heel. She was sure the Fade-hounds would track the scent of her blood. Still, she did not desist, even when her elder's old legs grew weak and her pants twisted into desperate coughs.

Elder Glandival staggered to a halt, clutching the walls with what little breath she had left. When Var'sulahn wrenched her to a stand, the elder screamed to her knees once more. Beneath her skirts her legs were alabaster pale with thick, black veins pulsing deadly from the skin.

She hushed Var'sulahn's questioning with a hand, and gestured further into the corridor. "I have been weak for many years, dear. It is an illness not even Dirthamen could cure, but the story of it I fear will go with me to my grave. Hush now, sister. Follow the corridor. At the end there is an eluvian that will take you farther than the Crossroads. Use the spell I taught you, and _live_."

The cries of the Inner Sanctum grew further and further distant. It would only be a matter of time before the enemy searched the tunnels, for her. Var'sulahn begged, pleaded, scratched at the elder's robes as if the very material might spark some ounce of renewed vigour into her wary bones. Only when firelight caught the way they had came did Var'sulahn slowly crawl backward. The elder branded her one last smile before flames crackled in her hands.

She would fight until the end, just like her brethren.

The remainder of the way was a blur to Var'sulahn. Somehow she had found the eluvian standing in one of the smaller rooms, locked and unused. Dust had claimed its brassy frame. The edges of the mirror were cracked, yet it still hummed in life. Bracing a hand against her chest for breath, she slowly pressed her other onto the cool, glassy surface, and repeated the words, _"Dirthamen enaste sulevin."_

From the dim cool grey flashed a creamy blue. Wisps of magic flittered from the very glass, spinning around her waist as if to comfort, or draw her in. The glass dissolved into liquid sapphire when her body pressed into its pool. In a flash of white she was in another place, another room. The stem of a castle it seemed. A short tunnel that ended in a small rotunda backed by bookcases. Tomes layered in cobwebs and dust racked every shelf. Scrolls adorned the central table, where placed on an altar was a book far larger than she herself, blotted in smudges of ink.

The entire room was a lost trove of knowledge. A quiet study from the rest of the temple, perhaps completely segregated from it in another realm.

 _Did this belong to the high priest?_ Var'sulahn wondered, quietly spinning around it. Her hand rested over the table, where hidden amongst steepled tomes lay lilac glass backed in stone. _The artifact I stole… the high priest put it here?_

Her fingers petted the shard gingerly. It felt cold, dead. The very weight was surprisingly light and she found herself drawing back to the eluvian, placing the shard against its frame. _Strange. It seems to be of the same material._

Through the eluvian the figure of a man caught her eye by the other realm's doorway. Var'sulahn had tilted her head at first, confused by the lack of light displaying his features. But then he drew forth towards the portal at alarming rate, raising his staff high as magic kindled at the root.

The elvhen screamed, raising her hands while the image quickly vanished from the mirror. When she reopened her eyes she only had her reflection to greet her. Little did she know as the hours passed to days, and the days passed to weeks, that it would be the last immortal face she ever saw.

The magic that once brought her into that new realm had trapped her inside. It must have been Dirthamen's cruel jest for her to come so far only to starve to death in a tomb of his follower's own making. In the darkness with even the veilfire torches waning in lustre, the stench of death had begun to seep into the air. Even with the portal closed there was still a connection to the other side, and hints of that side crept in every nook and cranny.

With little else all Var'sulahn could do in the long, cold evenings was reminisce on the horror she had scathed, and those that had died to protect her. Her brother, her elder, those sentinels in the temple and all others that resided within were but a few of a very long list that waited to be finished. Perhaps, in that tomb, it would have been, once insanity had left its mark upon her mind.

When hunger had shrunk her stomach to bone, when thirst had dried her mouth sore, when cold sucked the warmth from her skin leaving her

pale as a sheeted effigy, the young elf sank beneath the pillars of knowledge adorning her prison and waited for Falon'Din to claim her from the damp stone floor. Silly how it was, but in the long hours she waited she wished solely for company. In the rotunda there were no rats to gnaw at her flesh. Only spiders and even their legs had begun to gnarl and stomachs bloat in an empty death.

There, surrounded by knowledge she could only dream of, she slept while waiting for death. Even then she did not beg for it. Death may have been a reprieve but in the Fade her master would be able to find her spririt, even if she fled for an eternity. In the quiet, dank crypt that she was in, there was freedom from him at least. Something that made the pain almost worthwhile.

Then, when all seemed fruitless, the veilfires shifted in a presence. Ethereal like Dirthamen himself; graceful in the delicate steps of a goddess; loving as the face of her mother shining down in sorrow. A spectre of the most beautiful left the eluvian's glass magic-less. Partly delirious, all Var'sulahn could do was watch unblinking, unbreathing, as the god-made-mortal descended into the rotunda fastened in a gown of silver silk. Effortless was her kneel before her. Soft was the face she adopted.

Wheezing in the corner, the young elf drew in all her strength just to reach out and take her hand. The spirit smiled and facilely shifted her onto her knees, cradled like a child. The spirit hummed a gentle song her mother once sang while gently combing the blood from her hair. She could still remember the words…

 _'Sun sets, little one,_

 _Time to dream_

 _Your mind journeys,_

 _But I will hold you here._

 _Where will you go, little one_

 _Lost to me in sleep?_

 _Seek truth in a forgotten land_

 _Deep with in your heart._

 _Never fear, little one,_

 _Wherever you shall go._

 _Follow my voice-_

 _I will call you home._

 _I will call you home.'_

Var'sulahn's last comfort was the thought of her father's pavillion by the water, with her younger sister sewing by the cherry trees; her older brother catching herring by the brooks; her mother held in the arms of her lover, and her father gazing out into the distant horizon. In the end before it all faded to dark, her father turned away from the sun to beckon her come with the wave of a hand. And she could finally return home.

The shard clutched to her aching breasts sealed their fate forever. The heaven of that thought stayed with her as frost claimed her idle body. In time the magic would freeze all within the study, and she would lay beneath the guidance of a sun-lit spirit drawn to her pleas out of compassion. The shard bound them together, twin souls contempt, in ice for over a thousand year dream.

….


	14. Battles Fought

.

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Fourteen: Battles Fought

Her name had been Var'sulahn, once.

She had clawed and lashed and sieged through a temple created under the name of her saviour, Dirthamen. In those ruins she had witnessed the turn of an age and the fall of a people in little under a day. Cold, shaken, still coated in the frost of a past millennium, she had limped from the past and into the present. Var'sulahn fell into the care of the Dalish, and was reborn as Lahris Elgar'shiral.

A forename to establish how distant the lines of true elvhen history had become; where even names were no longer poetic literacy. And her surname to be what her change had made of her: a journeying spirit, destined to be a cursed soul forever.

When she woke from what felt to be a memory rather than a dream, her stomach lurched in rising from the Inner Sanctum's floor.

Damp clung to her skirts, though where she feared blood, it was in fact simply water. A pool in actuality. The lower halls of the sanctum had been flooded ankle-deep, casting a worrisome ripple when standing over a cold, murky surface.

Steep rocky banks overgrown in moss rose over the stairways to block any way to leave. She stood inside a bowl of quagmire that had bubbles hissing in the algae. The air was chill and bitter, full with fog that itched against her shivering skin. To her surprise, another had awoken before her. Bald, dressed in fur and cotten. A bubble of hope rose in her chest, rising higher to hiccup in her throat when she called out his name.

When he turned, her eyes flashed to the leaden patch of fabric between his left shoulder and collarbone. The fur sash had taken most of the damage, although the memory of slashing into him whipped into her mind. She cupped her quivering lips, quickly shaking her head. " _Hahren_! By Dirthamen, I-I am so sorry-"

She reached out to touch him, then retracted her fingers. What had her frown was his lack of scorn. Instead he stumbled towards her, carrying his staff in the crook of his other arm and holding his shoulder like a sling. "You are a talented mage, _da'len_ ," he admitted, wincing when he attempted to roll his injured shoulder backward, "but fortunately for me, poor in accuracy."

Her fingers naturally threaded into the fabric, picking at the severings to focus on the wound beneath. Her lip curled at the sight, although she forced a smile. "I thought you were someone else. We were also in the dark."

"Ah, yes. Darkness. Perhaps I should thank that as well."

Her staff had ripped a tear into his robe. There was a jagged cut beneath the tunic, one that had mostly healed by what she could only presume to be a spell. Still, though the muscle had been mended, some of the tissue still required a healer. Weaving ice across her forefinger, she begun to cut her rainment at the skirt, severing it from the body and then tying it loosely around his shoulder. She blew cold air over the final patch, which froze the outer layer of bandage to help stem inflammation.

"I truly am sorry, Solas," she muttered, keeping her gaze to the water. "Something changed the way I saw you. I thought you were going to kill me."

"I understand. There is a demon here. Far more powerful than I anticipated. It fooled you as it fooled me. I admit, I'm surprised you woke so quickly. The others have yet to even stir."

Correct he was in that they were not the only ones that had floated in the water. Jaras, Velani and Dwyvaris were the same with their faces raised in such a way that they could not possibly drown. Strange, how the demon had not yet killed them. Which meant it wanted something. Or that they were important in some way.

All of a sudden the remaining three begun to stir. Velani's eyes fluttered open first, though her soft features scrunched in confusion. She suddenly lashed out of the pond searching for her bow and quiver. Jaras was the second, though he merely yawned, spreading his arms out before scratching the back of his neck and peering dimly around the hall. Finally was the dwarf, but at the first feeling of water he thrusted his arms out and begun to paddle, with tiny bandaged stumps kicking the air for purchase.

"Stone, stone, stone! Cursed stone, get me out! I can't swim!" he cried, gasping for breath.

Velani rolled her eyes and wrenched him up to his buttocks by the scrunch of his jerkin. "The lake's not even knee-deep, dwarf. Not even rats could drown in this."

His arms immediately stopped waving. He squinted down and nodded. "Suppose it was an easy mistake on my part. My apologies, m'lady."

Jaras languishly eyed the hall before a scowl darkened his face. "Lass, where are we? I could've sworn we were in a tunnel before…"

"It seems we were all ensnared by a demon," Solas explained.

"A demon?" Velani swiftly nocked an arrow. "Where is it now then? Show yourself, demon!"

As if waiting for an introduction, an earth-shattering screech pierced the sanctum. The terrible scream tore the temple apart, crumbling pillars, statues and columns. Ruptures above split into further cracks, causing the golden roof to hail down in thick clusters, splashing dents into the lake.

From below the water ascended a presence carrying drenched wings. It rose to tower over them all, concealing everything in its profound tenebrosity, as poised as a phantom driven to the beyond only to return a god. It swayed over the water, masses of linen wraps draping brittle bones caught over torchlight as pale clayed weave. Shackles clinked at its heels, while mist floated eerily over the surface like a film ready to conceal its escape.

Still, there was an essence of familiarity to it that had Lahris' legs sloshing forward, only to be faltered by Solas' hand catching her own. He coaxed her backward until he was in front of her, protecting her, with his staff cast waringly out.

 _He does not wish to kill the demon,_ she realised. _But he will if necessary._

"What name do you call yourself?" he demanded.

The demon's teeth curled back in disgust. It began to emit a series of squeaks and clicks, before finding a voice they all could understand. "You dare command me?"

"I dare to know what you are! What brought you here? Why do you linger?"

"I am a whisper in the shadow. A tear upon the cheek. A darkness in the mind. I harden the ice in your heart. I am the burn inside your throat. I am the whimper in your voice when you ask death a question, and I am that question's answer." It continued,"From the shadows, I crave the tears of the weak, whimpers of the strong. I thirst for the misery that only pain can bring. I lavish in its juices. I am no fear. But **despair** , I am named. And you, little elflings, have much to tempt.'

It cascaded over the lake in a flush of yellowed grey. Black goo seeped from its talons and jaws, tainting the water beneath in tar and sludge. Decayed vegetation clung to its great incisors like dung to cattle, scattering its filthy slime. It approached the two elves until there was only a sheen of the tiniest mote of dust between them.

From there it dipped forward, inhaled deep, and cackled. "Yes, elflings. You have much to tempt, indeed. The despair, the agony… it is **thrilling**."

 _It will never let me go,_ Lahris realised, scrunching Solas' tunic so tightly he cringed in pain, throwing his shoulder back to knock her hands loose.

"The other took you from me once, Var'sulahn. She will not take you from me again."

The fear originally settled in her chest was quickly replaced by curiosity. Lahris peeked out from behind her friend's shoulder, watching the sunken sockets under the demon's hood sheen. "Other? What other?"

Despair snapped it's neck to the breastbone. "You do not remember. Even when you rehearsed the haunting in your mind. Do I be kind or cruel, I wonder? For your final moments. Perhaps I shall be a merciful ghoul before your end." Talons uncurled from the demon's claw slowly, while tar dripped from the punctures. In one there was still a nail, dead and flakey. "Do you dare take my bargain, little elfling?"

Solas tapped her feet back with his ankles. His own staff glinted emerald.

When Lahris saw the demon, she saw the hand of Falon'Din himself beckoning her to taste divinity. Her own hand reached out subconsciously. She needed to know how her marks came to be. She needed the missing fragment of her past if she was ever to feel whole again. It was a risk and she took it in a leap.

Lahris saw her own horror and surprise reflected in Solas' face, but before he could turn to stop her, she had shoved him aside and taken the offering freely. Black slime coated her hand in a coldness that could rival an iced sea. It clung to her like acid, searing her flesh in flushes. Then, her entire world sunk into the pits of Despair.

For a heartbeat she was in utter blackness. Strangely, she found herself devoid of any fear. Cleansed of all emotion, in fact, save for a nip of curiosity and a hand that faintly burned. The elvhen took a single step forward. The blackness gradually receded within the glow of a Fade being. Back in the rotunda with the old glassed eluvian behind her, she saw from the tunnel her own frozen body, as it was gradually layered in an ice that would entomb her for centuries.

Cushioned in the lap of a spirit, the benign creature with a complexion of a flushing dawn soothed her mind to sleep in light caresses of hair and cheek. As the essence of winter lapped the warmth from Lahris' vision of her neck, a tear wet her nose, though even that solidified into a crystal droplet.

Lahris' own heart pulsed suddenly and she cradled the area with a hand, swallowing thick. _The spirit. It was the one that comforted me. But why has the demon shown me what I have already seen?_

As her ghostly vision's eyes fluttered for the last time, an exceptional phosphorescence ensnared the chamber. Hidden in the depths of her robe, the mirrored gem that could only be described as her shard illuminated in a foreign shine of lilac. Locks of white-gold slipped down the spirit's shoulders when it dipped to see what caused such a wonder. It's fingers rested on the stone and the chamber instantly flashed in an array of bright, white light.

At that moment the dreadful truth hit Lahris. As did the anguish of a pain that was not meant for her to bare. Lahris gasped for breath as her heart pounded and laboured in her chest. Spasms of burning heat rippled from fingers to knuckles, to wrist to elbow, all of which were readily being consumed by a lilac radiance like a star devouring a comet.

Lahris tore her gaze from her arm to the spirit, where she found the mirrored actions, expressions, _hurt_. In that instance she was the spirit and she was being ripped apart.

In just one touch the shard had sought to guzzle her power though not just in soul but in material body as well. The spirit lurched to her knees. The last of her light beamed into the case. In a final flash its fate had been sealed and Lahris was thrown from the clutch of Despair, panting heavily in the murky water of Dirthamen's Inner Sanctum.

When Solas caught her chin he saw for the first time true vulnerability. Pale arms trembled when cupped to her chest. Eyes wide with terror and tears that threatened to fall had she not sniffed them away. For so long she had fought the artifact she had stolen. Blamed it for the curse she bore. When in actuality the spirit caged inside was as much a prisoner to its torment as she was. Only she had the chance to walk Thedas with the sun at her back and the moon at her behest. Pleasure and laughter and joy were still to be hers if she tried. The spirit knew only pain, all on the action of a careless empathetic whim to keep her calm in her most dire time.

 _Another burden to add to my list._

"The trade has not yet completed, Var'sulahn," taunted Despair, cracking its fore-talon back in come-hither. "As promised, I granted your final ties to this ruin. Now you must grant me your soul as boon and payment."

Solas growled. "Her soul was never part of the bargain!"

"It never needed to be. She willingly gives it." Despair's voice wormed its way eagerly into her mind. Lahris clasped her hands over her ears, yet even that did not end its infernal ridicules. "Remember the screech of your sibling when your lord wrenched the heart from his chest and threw the orfice to the lessers! Remember the blood pooling from your dead elder's throat when her lungs were severed and gnawed. Hear the screams of the champions that died for your life. I have to ponder, was it worth the sacrifice? So you could pass through the new lands cowering in fear? Would you do the People proud? Would you do Dirthamen proud?"

Her eyes flickered open upon the utterance of her god. The demon, oblivious, continued. "You are the unintentional phantom of malice, it is true. Fate has destined you down this path, but you readily consume it. Even now. The deaths hang heavily around your neck, little elfling. I can almost **taste** the **agony**. Let me lessen the noose. Let me feed on your burden and grant you peace on the other side. Let me be your **salvation**."

Her focus shifted from the sanctum to her wrist: drenched, cold and shaking against Solas' furred sash. From the sleeve peeked silken embroidery. The material of a skirt or cowl faded at the seams with blood. _The blood of my people,_ she thought. _The last of my people. Dirthamen still has his plan for me. Dying here is not it._

A sudden surge of courage hidden in the depths of her being sprung free like wildfire. Var'sulahn may have caused the deaths of a hundred, but they died in the line of duty. They died for the plan of her lord to rise to effect. Her brother died to continue their legacy. If she perished in the sanctum, then their sacrifices would be for nothing. She was a survivor and she was **alive**.

"You call yourself Despair," she muttered, finding courage in the arms by her waist and the company the sanctum kept. Even when speaking her Dalish companions had gathered their quivers and nocked their bows. Even the dwarf had found safe harbour in a patch of mire, nicking from crumbled slabs the degraded hilt of an axe.

Using her staff as a cane, she gingerly stepped into the demon's shadow. The staff's crown glistened in wild, bustling magic, blushing her soft cheeks and stern scowled lips in the magic of her shard. She drew in a shaky breath and clamped her weapon's end into the floor, cracking the stone beneath her feet. "You may think you are cunning, but you know very little of my grief!"

In a whip of metal the demon jerked away. Goo sprung from its knuckles in a scream. It's severed talon flung from the root to plop into the watery abyss bubbling beneath its toes.

"You will not take me, Despair!" Lahris roared, striking the demon once more with a lash of soaring ice.

The demon hurled away from the elvhen mages, narrowed its sights on Jaras and dipped its rags to flare his way. Another strike caught it by surprise, causing a high-pitched shriek to shudder the very temple as it floundered to the water. "You will not take them, either!"

Despair settled on the far end of the quagmire and raised its oozing talons in prayer. Near suddenly the lake shattered in many decayed corpses. Some elvhen. Some simple Dalish, and some dwarves. Dwyvaris' caravan guards, no less. Built in sturdy, leather cuirasses rimmed in lyrium alloys. Of course they were the first defence of the Fade ghoul. They were likely to be the last, either.

As the reanimated corpses cracked into formation, Despair bayed his prey come with curled claws."Then," it chuckled, "let us begin."

Before anyone could react, Despair's cruel dark magic was flung high above. The ceiling rumbled once again. Earth broke beneath them all as pelts of stone pounded the ground into craters, splitting the banisters into thousands of tiny pieces.

The elves and dwarf dashed away. Powder drifted through the air and covered the water in sand. It took time before the cloud dust settled, and when it had, lain in front of them all was the demon's devastation: ceiling fragments that ripped the sanctum into two parts. The mages on one half, the Dalish on the other.

The animated ghouls seemed to react to movement, charging forward in sluggish drags of leg and foot when the mages begun to cast their spells. One had no arm for its bow and instead held it high as a blade ready to pierce their eyes. On the opposite side, the Dalish nocked arrow after arrow into their gnarled skin, piercing chest and shoulder, worm-soaked gut to sagging rot.

With the mages, the air sparked to life in magical battle. Bolts of frost and Fade encompassed the hall in a fiery display of will and power. Lahris' hands danced across each other in a cast of white and blue. The cold further embraced her magic, each spell growing in intensity and shine.

Then, as the corpses groaned into the depths of the murk, never to arise again, the drowned mounds of dust from the ceiling morphed into soggy tempests of sand. Long arms bent inwardly at the elbows, gaunt fingernails clawed at the world with mauls wide and gaping. It was then that Lahris realised that it was not dust but ash. Ash of the once fallen sentinels within the tower renewed in twisted malice. Ash that had hardened into thick bones and stony skulls twisted around flaming bodies.

"Ash wraiths!" announced Solas. "Be ready. These are not the simplest of foes! Watch their movements. They favour surprise."

Though Lahris' wave of ice took effect on the wraiths, hardening their bodies at the waist down, it did not slow their onslaught. Snapping their bodies from the frozen water, they dashed over the surface like slim eels, far too nimble to catch. The remaining spells reflected off their bony exteriors in glints of light. Calloused, twisted hands shielded their hearts of flame.

In one swift glide of his staff, Solas had harnessed the energies of the Fade, using its essence to tear open a rift in the air. The rift was a temporary tear in the Veil, one that slipped out long, glowing tendrils to smother the demons in a binding hold. The ash wraiths howled out as the swirling vortex sucked them back into the centre of the hall. There, their arms were ripped. Their flame left exposed. The spells Lahris cast finally hit their mark. Fire thought eternal quickly extinguished from the wraiths in a blinding wisp of wind. Their bones clanked to pieces, turning into a mound of fine powder floating on the lake.

However, in the midst of battle she had not seen Despair's slow approach until it was too late. In the demon's seething wake it caught her underarm and pulled her sleeves taut. It's other claw whipped across her chest, fraying the cotton and tinging the colour in dark crimson. Her blood.

Lahris shrieked out in agony. She threw her arms out to close the wounds while her knees bent in submission. Pain flared over her shoulder-blade, waist and spine. Blood sluiced into ruptures of burning flesh like liquid rubies. Each time she screamed, the demon's mirth grew tenfold.

Then finally it chuckled. Its skeletal toes barely grazed Dirthamen's alter, but in its descent cursed enchantments wafted from its being like poisonous fumes of rotten cabbage. It's robes folded and flickered as it met the water. It's shackles rattled in an outward gesture. A claw ready to be taken.

"You should not have disobeyed me," it said, it's tone as deep and pitted as the under-croft. "Cease your fighting, little elfing. I have already won. Come. Know what it is truly like to face death."

He was right. All around her, her companions were amid a battle they could not beat. Upon a high ledge, Velani's arrows bounced off the ashwraiths and their armour, for their sanded flesh has grown too thick to pierce. The stone-serving dwarf swung his axe back and forth, but as the demon bodies piled, more emerged from the lake.

And Solas. The mage called out to her. Begged her to stay strong while he fought against the growing hoard. A moment later, she heard it. A cry of pain so similar to her own yet not as equally devastating. It was worse.

Lahris stared at the open gap between the debris splitting the sanctum. In the slash of a blade Jaras' jerkin was torn free from his person, lashed into severs. He collapsed onto his knees in a display of clenching fists, trembled arms and ragged breath.

Var'sulahn had once been told that time could never truly be controlled enough to slow, merely still for seconds. The thought crossed her mind, as in that moment, she was sure Despair had taken time from her purposefully, if to watch the slow death of her most beloved friend, and family.

She tore through her bloodied rags. Shrieked when her elbow swiftly _popped_. If pain could only have been so blinding to shield her crying eyes from the gradual decline of an undead dwarven axe eagerly gnawing the air to split his ribcage in two.

She screamed, helpless, as the tip sliced into his body; sunk deep into bone. His wails twisted her stomach, tore the last shred of willpower she had. Lahris sobbed, mouthing his name for no sound slipped from her throat. She could taste only bile - spit only the last of her pleas before succumbing to utter shock.

Her ears deafened on the final crack. Then, Lahris Elgar'shiral fell silent.

Pain was no more. Despair was no more. There was only numbness. A numbness that deafened her ears to all but her heart. Even that barely uttered a whisper. She merely stared, lips slack and cheeks frighteningly white, at a crumbling mass of elven flesh, soon concealed deep in lashing water.

A queer coldness fluttered across her chest. A dreamy, ethereal coldness, one that had her mind feathery light yet also in a misty haze. At first she recognised only little. Dirthamen's ancient sanctum had seemed to become a world of mist and shadows in a matter of heartbeats, with a presence upon her, watching her, though not truly there. Here and there the mist gave way to visions, some small and clear as if glassy reflections, slowly parting to a truer clarity. There was no sound to speak of, only bright, wavering images. The tragedy of her friend had caused a reaction. Due to it, she was seeing through the eyes of an oracle.

Eastward she saw mountains parting to erect the very foundations of Skyhold, before the shemlen masonry had morphed the vivid beauty of the past: hacked the great towers into rubble, and sucked the very magic from the polished monuments to feed the hunger of their mages. Westward she spied uncharted plains, nameless lands, pale-white dunes, places yet unexplored. Northward a great river lay beneath her, ribboning a land of groves and forests. A place stood over hissing waterfalls and beneath creeping cloudcover. A place that crowned the sky with spires, jutting through even the highest pinnacle of blue to reach the sun. The vision shifted down to the land beneath the city, to a long pond only clear in vibrant waves. From across the pond a shadow begun to walk, with twin birds perched over stern pouldrons, and a cane so unlike her own, dazzling the faintest purple. Mist from her reality slowly enclosed them, with only his cane shining like a lantern caught in an eye of fog.

Lahris matched his ghostly steps, feeling the lake part as if nature itself owed her fealty. They ceased drifting five metres apart. Close enough to feel a lingering attachment that seemed to draw each of them together, yet distant enough to cloak their faces in mist. The masked man reminded her of Solas' fresco. Of the painted mage that held the daunting depiction of her most lost god. Perhaps, in a way, he might have been him, for from the masked man's presence had come whispers. Secrets that her ears could not decipher, no matter how far they stretched. All Lahris could do was stand before him, breathless, as his light expanded before her very eyes to swallow her world.

In reality, Dirthamen's Inner Sanctum erupted in the light of her lord. No presence of the Fade could hide from such a power, and in the presence of an ancient divine, could only be torn asunder.


	15. Remorse

.

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Fifteen: Remorse

Her gaze settled on a distant disturbance in the night, on fireflies twinkling in the depths of the Brecillian. Wolves sung whenever there was disquiet, while owls soured over sparser glade as tranquil in grace as withered crests fallen from gathered trunks of spruce and maidenhair. She hummed to them sometimes, satisfied in the mild hoot they returned. Her father had always mentioned yearning for a time of complacency. The life of a lord prevented much in personal respite. In a way she wished to honour it. Alone, in the quiet, with only nature surrounding her, she had to admit. It was nice.

Though there was a part of her conscience that kept coaxing her back to her Keeper's tent, where a chimney bellowed in the last remaining fumes of a dwindling flame born from an ashen hearth; where soft snores resonated over crimson tapestries and thin timber walls, even through ruptures in the makeshift roof, where spiders softly settled in silken beds.

There had been a gathering outside the Keeper's abode from dawn to dusk. She had been included for a while, before she had been dealt the accursed abuse of the entire clan, forcing her to seek shelter on the ramparts overlooking the forest. She had not dared to set a hair into their boundary since. To do so might have very well called for their bows to be manned and their arrows to puncture where guilt hurt her most.

Lahris glimpsed the sling hugging her right arm in, and softly frowned. An unhealthy shade of brown had caught the inner lining. Most likely dried blood. She sighed, and winced when folding a frayed patch over the wound, concealing the breakage from view. All she could do was lie against a pillar overlooking the Dalish land, hoping to what little of her gods remained that her friend would sleep peacefully through the night.

Soon, the day would rise in fire and smoke, and she would once again have to face the burden she alone had brought to her clan. Fearing what would approach in the coming hours, she twiddled a dry leaf in between her healthy fingers, following the veins with her nails until the surface ripped just a little more.

Her ears pricked at the platform's render. She did not need to peer his way to know whom had come to trouble her. For she smelt an essence of pine and newly inked tampestry carried on the wind. Familiar, alluring yet slightly toxic: a scent that tingled her nose, though not enough to sniffle. Instead she knew that if he had not intended for her to hear him, his naked toes would have been the first to see curling over the rampart's edge, while his pale hand swung to settle on his back.

His shadow dwarfed the closest fireflies. She sighed, knowing what was to come.

"I've always been curious about Dalish medicine. Would their poulstices be inferior to those of their human counterparts? After all, their culture has degraded vastly to what they blindly aspire to be. I suspected little in the way of magical prowess, believed they relied heavily on herbal remedies to cure their ailments."

He continued to face the wooded glade, though she watched his chin rise slightly higher. "I've never met a clan with more than two healers. Most cast them away for fear of losing themselves to the Fade, or their trickster god, Fen'Harel. I once visited a clan who shunned magic altogether, believing it abhorrent to their creators."

Lahris slowly arched her brow. "Why would they do such a thing?"

He sighed, and in doing so, caused his shoulders to lax, as if a long kept tension was briefly dispelled. "Because time breeds a need for simplicity. Why continue to strive for a civilisation already lost? Why continue to value the morals of the latter when chants of another pantheon weigh in from other paths? That's not to say I dismiss the Chantry. All Religion has its faults. Merely the addition of another belief over the centuries would certainly leave an impression, and could easily be absorbed into the old, creating something inherently new altogether. Perhaps, even more disasterous."

"So, what did you do, when they found out you were a mage?"

"I feared if I stayed I might become one of the relics they so greedily horded. I… will not repeat the horrors I had seen, although what I can admit is what the Templars do to mages is a form of mercy compared to their barbarism. Let that be enough, da'len."

Lahris pursed her lips, nodding slowly. "I suppose the Sahlin Dalish are similar, having forgotten the old ways." Her gaze drifted off into the distance, glassed and dazed. Memories of the past easily swam into her mind, like her flittering fireflies gently fawning for her attention. "Nothing was the same when they found me. They lived in straw huts and baked in stone hearths, hacked down trees without a thought to the spirits they harboured. It took… so much control not to simply cry out. It was… like… viewing a painting, with all the detail marred or askew. I-"

Her breathing faltered. Then, she softly smiled, while her lips were gently bitten. "Ir abelas, the evening air has clouded my thoughts. I'm not sure what I'm saying."

Solas gradually descended onto the rampart, seating himself so he could see her closely. Her focus merely returned to glare up into a long, black sky, where even as the Brecilian choked in plains, there were still glades freely opened, as if mourning the beauty of the world at times, desperate to see if the Veil still remained. For the Fade was once the sun to the wooded lands, breathing new life into those decayed, dead stumps. But as she saw many nights past, the bodies of nature were now only husks, for once there was death, it could never be undone.

Her fingers dug deeper into the leaf until it shattered completely. _All will turn to dust. I will turn to dust, one day._

"Solas, will you do me a small favour while you stay with the Dalish?" His frown drew taut, curious. He agreed. "Do not dwell in the Fade for these memories. Lock the temptation away. Do not dream near the temple. If you do this for me, I will forever be grateful."

His question presented itself in a frown, in the flinch of a brow, attempting to figure what little pieces of an enigma she had produced. "What binds you here, da'len? Demons only latch onto those most alike to their identity. Despair latched onto you directly. On your despair. It hungered for you. May I inquire as to why?"

"No," she insisted, casting a pleading glance his way. "No."

"May I ask what you uncovered by ignoring my advice, then? I forbided you from listening to Despair, yet you unheeded my advice and sought its council anyway. You were fortunate it willingly released you, or else you might not be here." He cast his elbows across his knees, causing course woollen flaps to drape his thighs. He reached up to hold the bridge of his nose tight, before finally releasing tension from his shoulders. "He could have possessed you. Worse, he could've-"

A hand cupped his shoulder, small and frailly pale. Her cheek soon replaced it, nuzzling the soft wolf fur of his pouldron, to then finally peck his cheek with a kiss. The apostate stilled beneath her, either due to concern, surprise, a chill in the night air or even due to the distant howl, she knew not. Only that it drew her closer to him, as she tucked her maimed arm into his waist and squoze into his free-shoulder for more comfort.

Lahris held her breath, for she secretly longed for the embrace of another, even if it was a simple pat on the brow or a warm sigh across her cold ear. Instead, she was rewarded by his chin resting over her hair. His breath fogged the night sky above her.

She hesitated a moment longer before finally elaborating. "Ma melava halani," she whispered, and briefly wondered if he could truly understand her elder speech. "Even when you had no cause to. Truth…. my truth… maybe you deserve to know some of it. Despair told me of the presence in my shard. It's a spirit."

Solas shuffled, his feet caught in old, evergreen moss. He caught her chin with a finger and raised it. "A spirit?"

"Yes."

He released her, thoughtfully scratching his jaw. "Interesting. So it is a binding stone. A powerful charm created for the sole purpose of drawing the energy from the ether. Matter born with resonance, adaptability. Thoughts, feelings. In other meanings, a spirit. This is old dark magic. I never thought to see it's like again."

"Again?"

"In the Fade, da'len. I have visited many places, seen more than many would care to share. I happened upon a binding ritual once, one that included such a stone. The spirit captured was forced to abuse its power until it was all together broken. Once the spirit exhausted all that could be drained, it simply vanished, allowing the stone to be reused on another."

"Like a cycle?"

"Unfortunately so. If memory serves me correctly you have previously mentioned another possessing several of your artifacts, have you not? Which could only mean they are similar devices, used perhaps for an identical purpose. But… for what purpose? Power? Fealty? Fear? There are other methods far simpler in achieving those ends. To ensnare a spirit is no easy feat. Demons, yes, but something tells me your shard would not work on a spirit deviated from its purpose. It would take far more power to bind it if it were first trapped unwillingly… but if it were trapped and suspended in a dormant state…"

"the spirit would be completely vulnerable…"

"… to any manipulation," he finished.

A light, twinkling in the joy of a shared debate, glistened in the eyes of the elvhen mage, while she looked upon her mentor with a warm tingling sensation fluttering in waves across her chest. She smiled, kindly, only to find that the joy so briefly mirrored in his own had begun to diminish, until he stared into an open glade as a flowing river caught his very glazed interest.

She sensed the cogs turning in his mind, and realised the severity, as well as sadness, that came with such a turning point in their shared conversation. The Inquisition no longer faced a foe they initially believed to be feeble. Not only that, but he was to be the barer of bad news. He would bare the frontal assault of the Inquisitor, in addition to his unkindly appreciation of elven kind.

Lahris lowered her gaze. _Would it not be simply best to leave the Inquisiton while it stood?_ she wondered, nibbling on her lower lip. _Or would my master knock the castle to the ice anyway, just to show his strength and dominance to this new world?_

"Care to share your thoughts, da'len?"

"Hmm?" she muttered, slowly shaking her head. "Oh, your, um, shoulder. Your shoulder, Solas. How do you feel? Has it mended well?"

Had he pondered on her swift change in subject, he did not admit to it. Instead he flexed his shoulder, only to wince at a sudden sharp pain. "I shall endure. Perhaps I should be asking the same of you. We all suffered at the hands of Despair, but you, I believe suffered far worse. Perhaps not psychically, but mentally, most likely, for I suspect the impression of it still lingers."

An impression did linger. Lahris could feel it in the very darkness of her mind, abiding its time while her thoughts drifted in and out of coherency. Its baring lingered on every syllable like a haunting, every sad roll of the tongue, every despairing memory. She attempted to shake them away, though she doubted it's influence could ever truly be eradicated. "If I have nightmares I know who to tell."

He smiled, nodding once.

They must have been a comical sight, twin slings cast on opposite arms together. An odd pair, an even odder couple. She frowned, having never truly thought of comparing them to such before. But yes… couple. That could be them, had things been different; had circumstances changed.

 _Would an apostate even truly yearn for a relationship?_ He had most likely spent the majority of his life alone, taking pleasure in public baths or luring maidens to his arms by a way of tales of wars and heroes. He most likely had no use for pleasure derived from courtship, only dalliances and trysts.

Lahris once wondered what it was like to be such a woman, free from the expectations of authority. To have the confidence to grasp the wiles of any man that found her appealing. Yet the bearings of tradition, high society privalleges and decorum prevented it from ever surfacing.

He was fortunate in that regard, to never know the restraints of a dove immured. Her wings had been clipped since birth.

"Solas?"

"Hmm?"

She hesitated. "I hope you grow to value the Dalish here. They may be difficult to understand at times, but they have a heart for their own. Mas seranas, for healing Jaras and bringing us back to this place in one piece, and for helping me so far in my journey. For teaching me. For everything. There might be times to come that I might seem not myself. I want you to know that I value all you've done, while we're alone."

His lips pursed against her, while his body for a time drew incredibly still. The only motion he made was a light kiss to her brow, though she feared she mistook it for a stir in the wind. "And… to you, da'len. For being an amicable student, and for allowing me to share in what I know."

"I'm sure you have had plenty of students in the past, hahren."

"A few," he admitted, gazing up into the stars. "A few… though none like you."

 _Because you change, everything._


	16. Heartbreak

.

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Sixteen: Heartbreak

Her eyes fell downcast on her mortal friend, Jaras of the Sahlin Dalish, with an eerie, long-lasting woe.

His suffering had been her fault. Since the day she had crossed the forgotten hillsides of a fallen faith, stumbling into a century so far from what she knew that it caused her panic to trebble, multiply. When she had swept into his people's swamps with her lost, damaged mind; to when he had found her, broken, near-death in a bed of river-water, with her ankles slightly gnawed on by Brecillian beatles.

Since she had first gazed upon his shady silhouette against the morning sunlight, she had known his downfall would be hers and hers alone to blame. Lahris Elgar'shiral just never truly knew how much of his mortal life she would claim, until it was nearly too late.

Draped in a thousand bandages, left to softly flounder in sheets drenched with sweat, as well as being encompassed in shady orange light by a dazzling hearth with her hand palely across his brow, all she could do was wait for his breathing to become dulcet, and for his eyes to open. Though he had not woken in two days.

The Fade claimed him. It did so many. It claimed the last of her people in a suspended, full-cycled memory that she relived constantly when she slept. It claimed desires for an apostate she rather wished buried, despite his yearning as an otherworldly traveller to experience them. It claimed the minds of her fellow Dalish, asleep as they were, and most importantly, it claimed the very horrors she wished to wipe from his memories.

Even asleep he twitched, involitarily. Nightmares creased his brows, scrunched his nose, curled his lips into the imperfect display of utter dread. He was reliving the very event he survived. She knew it. And yet, the Fade would not let him go.

"To see the horrors that I have seen," she whispered, when a tear slipped down her rosy cheek. Lahris wiped it away with a sleeve, and stuttered, "You fought so bravely, so foolishly. Why? Why didn't you run?!"

For a stuttered heartbeat, she thought she saw his lips upturn. B _ecause that's what family does, da'mi,_ he would say. _You're clan. The Keeper himself would kane me rotten if I never kept death from your bony hide._

"Even on the verge of death you make me smile. As the bloody fool you are Jaras, you make me smile."

Her hand stilled over one of his whilst their fingers remained locked. Lahris blinked away the last of her tears and drew herself upright, steeling her emotions to a cutting edge. "Which is why you must forget."

"And are you sure this is the course you wish?" the Sahlin Keeper's voice thrummed across the darkness of his tent, while he quietly closed the doorway with his staff, to finally bend to her knelt height. "Memories, yes, memories are indeed important. Where would we be without memory? Some cause hurt, some cause joy. Some grow into something altogether meaningful. Do you truly wish to deny this lad this gift, this journey of understanding?"

"There is no other way, hahren," she muttered, having felt his wrinkled hand over her shoulder.

He patted her softly, then withdrew, cupping his kane's undulating crystal. "I fear I no longer deserve that title, child. From what I hear, you have taken a new mentor. The shemlen clever-man. He holds sway over your heart."

Lahris quietly licked her lips, and withdrew her hand from her friend's forehead. "He is brave. He's aided many duties for no penance."

"Yet you value him. You respect him."

"I... believe he means me no harm."

Keeper Anthron arched a bristley silver brow. "You were governed by the wisest council my dear Var'sulahn. Elders far more wise than I. I read somewhere, oh many years ago, that my ancestors believed much in the faith of spirit rather than just pure logic. Reason was just as blind as the heart."

A snicker of mischief crossed him, causing his whiskered lips to rise and cheeks to turn a rediculous shade of plum. "Though when it comes to nagging wives, that's another matter entirely."

Lahris chuckled and slowly shook her head. "Perhaps your nagging wife, hahren, but I am fortunate enough to be spouseless."

"For now, child. For now." A silence encompassed them, until the Keeper continued. "Would your dear apostate approve of your choice?"

"What do you mean?"

"Precisely what I say. If he was here judging the morality of your actions, would he approve of our tempering with young Jaras' mind, hmm? He seems a confused soul, your clever-man. I have seen the way he watches the younglings play by our fires. He stares distantly into those fires. I fear our children's shadows spin tales for him. That is, not happy ones. There is an illness to him. Depression? Fear of what is to come? Perhaps loathing. He is definitively a tortured spirit, though even I would doubt he would agree to this meddling of our young Jaras' mind."

"Solas has his troubles," she murmured. "I might not be able to help him, but I can Jaras. He is so ill and it is my doing. If I could bring him some solace, some peace, perhaps that would heal is recovery. Your spell can do that."

"And stave the guilt from your conscience?" Incredibility caused a curious confusion to distort the Keeper's face, then pale in realisation. "Ah, I see now, Var'sulahn. I see you. I see that you are a selfish, disobedient child."

The elvhen girl froze. She sharply jerked her chin his way, eyes wide in astonishment. "Selfish? Disobedient?"

"All your life you have fought for only one person. Yourself. So many have died to keep you alive, child. So many souls driven to the edge of the beyond, all to defend you. You simply cannot carry another death on your conscience, so you seek to remove it by any force."

"I- _elder,_ no! That's not right! I have done everything to keep people alive. I try to stay away because I know Falon'Din follows me. I-I would never-"

"Seek to dismiss all from your conscience?"

"No! I... it was never about my conscience. If I had the opportunity to dispell my memories, I would in a heartbeat. The heartbreak, betrayal, killings, they sicken me even now. I dream at night and see so many faces staring back. I fear sleeping, Keeper! I fear everything. If I could end it all now I would, if to have some sembelance of normality. That is all I ask. If I could keep Jaras safe, keep him the way he was without this experience, yes I may feel better, but he will never have to live with paranoia or fear! He will be...a-at peace."

The Keeper's hand came to rest on her shoulder, though she shied away from it like his very touch would twist her into a writhering state of depression. Even Despair hissed in her mind, _MURDERER!_

She fled to the end of the tent - flew into a quiet nook of shadow far from his guilt-ridden stare. From the shadows a shy violet whipped between them: a swirling, intricate pattern of symbols and strokes, one that to an artist may have seemed... beautiful.

"So many things have happened to me, Keeper. Too... too many things," she whispered, tilting her arm like an ocean current, whilst the patterns on her skin glinted across the floor. "I followed Dirthamen to find an escape. For a time I... I had it, only for it to slip away."

Unlike the many times in her past where hatred boiled upon seeing the very poison etched in vines onto her person, for once she felt a twisted sense of comfort in its pulsing glow, as if there was a new meaning to it. One embodying pity. _I may have suffered, yet not alone. Never alone._

Realisation was a strange occurance that never truly had a timeframe in its dawning. To some, it may have taken mere moments. To others, a few hours. To Lahris, it was a slow-growing rebirth. Her skin no longer crawled at the sight of black veins drawn violet. Her chest no longer filled with dread or disgust. There was also no fear. Not truly.

She was tied to a spirit, one that had attempted in vain to provide peace in her final moments on Thedas. Where she could still thrive to a degree, it could not. It was more of a prisoner than she, for she could still experience life with some amount of normality. Her spirit could not. It lay encased in a shard of solid, ethereal glass. There were no whens or ifs in when it came to its freedom. There never would be one.

And in that pity, in that sorrow and resentment for her naivity, she had to wonder, were they the results of selfishness? Or were they the bouts of understanding finally thrust upon her in a time of lonely disquiet? Would pitying her friend and wishing his fears away be selfish?

Keeper Athron coaxed her out with a hand and gently guided her back onto the cot containing her wounded friend. Lahris slumped into the fur blankets, and watched her teacher with an undivided observance.

"I never meant what I said, my dear Var'sulahn. All I meant was for you to open your eyes. What are you doing, child, except chasing memories? You are reinacting only what young Jaras would do once his experiences are wiped away. He will fight to know the truth, and the only path that will lead to is a life lost in search, as well as a peace that will eventually leave him. He hasn't got the fortune of an eternity to search, child, unlike you. He only has one life. This life. Let his soul heal his wounds. Do not be a saint, but a healer."

"Ar lath ma lethallin, hahren," she sobbed, laying her face in her lap. There she rocked against the cot, seeming the very child she had so long renounced in the wake of a long inherited duty, caused by her father.

It had been so long since she was able to cry real tears, to feel real emotion. So long that she had forgotten how to be the child she once was to her father; so long that she barely remembered the comfort of another's embrace filled with a fatherly warmth. She was only three hundred years of age when her life twisted into the horror that it was. Equivalent, in Dalish age, to a mindset of eighteen years.

Her shoulders sank into course woollen fabric, soon enwrapped in long, flowing cuffs. Her fingers clung onto leather lapels, scoring holes and grains until a nail snapped. Her nose dug deep into his long, white hair, where she remained, nuzzling his shoulder and shaking into his chest.

"There, there, Var'sulahn," he whispered, choking on the last syllable of her name. He parted her hair and rocked to the crackling of their hearth-fire, allowing the night to take them away from that place. From any place. From misery, and pain. "There, there."

Lahris Elgar'shiral cried until no more tears could be wept. Her eyes may have burned and her cheeks may have remained as red as bruised, swollen cherries, yet no Dalish sought an answer to her state when she departed from the Keeper's tent in early morning sunlight. Instead, upon her sight they remained firm-lipped and merely watched as she left the great arched gates of their home to fall deeply into the depths of the Brecillian, not to be heard from again until her friend woke three days later.

By then it was too late.

~~o~~

"Ir lath ma lethallin..." ~ Yet I love him.


	17. Small Truths

.

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

When I was a child sat by my father's knee,

He taught me of lands of memories, and ancient history,

And one phrase he repeated, though I knew not what it meant,

With words so soft and sad, he'd lament:

Be careful my young lethallan,

May the dread wolf never catch your scent.

~~o~~

"You're not who they say you are, are you, da'len?"

Her steps ceased in the long grass of a forgotten valley, so far north from the Sahlin that much of the Brecillian was new to her. Rain had came in the late afternoon, timed well with the darkening of the sun behind sheets of cold clouds and fully shivering canopies.

Ahead, clusters of silver willows - stricken white by halla antlers and black by natural hollows - ringed the valley, leaving her bare feet snug in wet, cold reeds that prickled her soles with every nervous intake, though she knew there was nowhere to flee, even if she wished to.

Instead, Lahris Elgar'shiral sighed against the subtle whispers of the wind, knowing full well what the apostate had meant. It was only a matter of time. He understood the elder speech far more than any Dalish known, at least to her knowledge. He was there when Despair spoke of times long since past. He searched the Fade - a place that held far more history than even the forgotten libraries of Arlathan. Temptation was a cruel enchantress, and he had fallen under her spell.

"May I ask you a personal question, Lahris?" Never had the mention of her name stung her speechless. For a moment she searched for his intention; saw only dark, grey eyes shrouded in the evening rain, and nodded. "Why the secrecy?"

Her smile was small; full of sadness. "I was never one to trust, Solas. You or the Dalish, or anyone from this world." Her gaze fell in search of an adequate elaboration. "I woke to a world I never knew. No one I knew was alive. They were all dust. You've seen the memories for yourself. That is how you found the truth, yes? In the Fade?"

His side-ward grimace was her answer.

Her heart stung, yet all she could muster was a sad whisper, "I knew it."

Of course he had broken his promise. Had she never learned from mortals? Over the last decade she had seen mortals come and go and only rarely did she ever see true selflessness. Yet all fell to their insatiable curiosity. It seemed he had as well, and it hurt her for it. It hurt her to know he found her truth by his own terms, not hers. It hurt to know he had betrayed her trust. A trust she so rarely gave.

"How could you?" she whispered, staggering back into the comfort of an old willow tree. Her eyes glazed in tears, though she said nothing. Her lips begun to tremble. She raised her hand to her face and froze at seeing a familiar spark of violet.

 _They're all the same,_ she realised. _All mortals are the same. He knows who I am. I'll be sold to the Inquisition. Gagged and whipped and maimed for information about my people. What could they even gain? I am no scholar, no great mage, no fate-defining seer. I was a lady of the court. I was a maiden who cared little for her studies. What information could they even gather from me?_

 _My magic? My spirit? Would I be sold to Tevinter? Left to rot in a tower for all to bare witness? Or... would I be taken to... my master..._

Lahris shook the thought away, though it kept reoccurring in her mind like a terrible nightmare she could not escape. _No! I will not go back. I will not be his ever again! Never again!_

As the rain continued to filter through the leaves above, blending with the wet silt on the branches until the droplets turned as dark as blood, Lahris cradled her arms to her chest, willing the familiar sting of her magic to disappear. Memories of pain, memories of whips, memories of slashes and stings and cuts flared across her mind like the strongest wildfire, yet still she crawled to the ground and attempted to contain it. _Think of the spirit. Think of her. Another outburst and she may perish. Please, calm yourself- calm yourself!_

In her haze she did not see the crossing of the apostate, nor feel his gentle touch when he pulled her arms into his and whispered her magic away, until all he had was her staring into the distance, shivering in the cold.

"Ir abelas, da'len," he whispered, and when she peeked up, she was immersed by a strange glow in the evening shade, as well as by eyes that reminded her of seas calmed by the onslaught of a storm.

For a moment her vision cleared. For a moment her mind became clear - the fog quickly lifted. Instead of panic she returned to rationality, and to her first instinct. Suspect.

Though as she continued to study him, from the way he held her so tenderly with a sad, soft smile across his lips, she realised that in her heedful observance saw there was no ulterior motive, only his need to apologise, to be close to her, no matter how flawed the idea truly was. Despite that, all she could think of was of the long absent dreams he had envisioned. Of course, they were simply from a handful of individuals, whose experiences may have held only a short number of truths.

Solas had never been truly there. He had never felt the heat of her master's wrath. He had never felt the heart-wrenching ache of a family murder. He had never bit his tongue and undertaken acts of pure disgust just to survive. He could only sympathise. All he could do was take care in not startling a new revelation to Thedas, perhaps to sate his own perversions to the ancient ways.

On the other hand, he may have been different. He surely showed it in helping her. At least, she hoped he was. It was that small hope that kept her flight-instinct under control, that allowed him to console her with soft caresses over her shoulders, down to her arms, to the very tips of her fingers.

Until she eventually broke. "Solas, please... **_please_** don't take me back to the Inquisitor like this! He will keep me like a trophy. I'll be locked in a tower with no key. I'll be taken away and my master, Dirthamen preserve me, please don't let him take me!I'll die before he-"

His silence should have disturbed her greatly. Instead, the warmth of his arms crept into her wary muscles, leaving her far more relaxed then she should have been. _Has he cast a spell?_ Still, she found herself sinking into the willow until her shivering had ended completely.

Only then did Solas respond. "Don't be upset. You never had anything to fear. The Inquisitor will never know, da'len. This, I promise you."

"But you promised before-"

"I know, and I apologise for my rashness. But I see now what you truly are. And you are... unique."

"Unique?" she uttered, curiously tilting her head. "You do not blame me?"

"Blame you? For what?"

"For the fall of my people."

For a moment she saw his lips purse in question, as if the statement caught him unaware. In a way she sensed some of the tension ease between them, as did his grip on her arms. It seemed whatever surprise he had disappeared as soon as it came, though his closeness only grew before he spoke.

"Who would dare blame you?" In a blink the answer was clear. "Ah. The Dalish. Why am I not surprised?"

A sheepish smile caught her lips. "It is a long story."

Solas peered around the valley before brandishing her with his own polite smile. "Then perhaps we should take refuge here, at least until dawn. I would very much like to hear your story, Lahris Elgar'shiral. Not from the Fade this time, but from you."

~~o~~


	18. My Dear Apostate

.

The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Eighteen: My Dear Apostate

At night the Brecillian forest was just as enchanting as it was deadly. Tales of Dalish origin spoke of wild sylvans prowling the undergrowth, whilst wolves stalked the barren lands in search of their next feast. Each in their own way could be believed, for in their nightly stay, both she and Solas heard the deep rumble of ethereal creatures in moans and whispers. In howls that reverberated in the distance, so awfully quiet that it ached her heart to think of one alone in such a place that she was. Still, in the alcove of a willow, kept sheltered from the still falling drizzle, she had to admit. She was contempt.

As a purveyor of magic herself, witnessing the apostate manipulate the natural forces into mere sparks for kindling brought a slight excitement into her tired bones. Magic meant everything to her, and her people and her culture. Perhaps that was why when she witnessed the raw element in the hands of another, though practised a different way, it warmed her far quicker than the actual flames.

Light from the fire cast faint shadows within their enclosed sanctuary. Since her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, that which initially greeted her paled a little to reveal keen slants to Solas' jaw and nose, in addition to the cushioned slope of a well-furred pauldron.

Lahris snuggled into the hollowed out cove as the rain continued to fall beyond her. Draped in a sash of fur from Solas' own pack, a restful silence overcame the two of them.

That was until Solas breathed a new sigh into the night. "I feel it is only fair you know more about me before I inquire into your past. Please, what would you know of me? I'll answer what I can."

"Where do you call home?"

"Home? Home is where I rest my head, da'len. It is occassionally ravished by giant spiders, like an old lord's castle is festered in webbs and flies. I usually leave bait and set wards, so they are usually contempt to let me dream undeterred... for a time at least..." He paused, smiling softly beneath his hood. "To an extent."

Lahris caught his small smile. Her lips rose in symmetry. "To an extent? That sounds like the beginning of an interesting tale."

"Oh? Perhaps it does. Though I'm sure my past experience of sleeping in spider lairs lack the lustre you imagine. I doubt it would make a remarkable story, and I'm sure there are many other questions that may entertain you more."

Lahris fell quiet, using the bristly furs of a dead wolf to warm herself. She shuffled her knees beneath her chin, and thought. "How long have you been alone, Solas?"

His eyes fell downcast. "It's been a long time. A... very long time." He hesitated. "Like many individuals I once had a family. But that was long ago, and reflecting on cherished memories when in the comfort of others so very rarely ends in my benefit."

"And now you wish me to speak of mine. Is that not the same?"

"I-...You may be right. Ir abelas, da'len. Like I said I would happily share in what I know, but some memories are too painful to surface. At least, for now. Likewise I would not wish you to share in anything you did not deem relevant. I would not pressure you. If you simply wished to stay a mystery, I would respect it."

 _Then I would be alone to my thoughts again,_ she thought, watching the rain ahead litter their hungry fire. _Alone, again. He is so close to knowing... do I dare speak the truth?_

"What made you so interested in my people, Solas? I understand the Dalish. They strive to uncover what was lost, but you never learned with them. You even seem to spite them, so why do you care for them at all?"

"Care?" he snorted before realising his mistake. The apostate turned to her - his eyes a sharp glimmer against the firelight that caused her breath to seize in her throat. There was sympathy in those eyes, along with something altogether ancient. Mournful passion. "Have you ever walked the glinting white coast of ancient Elvhenan to witness the sea of Bellanaris'vallas? The eternally setting sun? I once experienced a memory in the Fade that mimicked its beauty."

The apostate cast his focus into the fire. With the firelight playing in the silvery blue of his stare, she could easily witness the waves he spoke of. A clash of pearl sunlight over a crystal blue sea, whilst spirits in song shimmered within the depths.

"So few wonders remain of Elvhenan. I was fortunate to come across the Bellanaris'vallas. It was said thousands of elves would wait in abundan to catch a glimpse of the sun's rays across the surface, for it was believed to mirror the very birth of the nether, of times well before elvhen kind, and of the world's very first creation.

Humans believe in their Maker and Andraste. The Qunari place their trust in riddles. The Dalish prefer fantasy to facts. But I? If you were to see the rural force of nature at work in those currents... if you were to witness spirits, benevolent and benign, bow in the very presence of a single tear of divinity, then it would be difficult to believe in any one god. Or, in a god at all.

I have seen many things, da'len. I have seen things that would shake the very nature of man completely. Walking the memory of the coast is exactly how the Dalish strive for the past. No elf could ever touch the Bellanaris'vallas. The further you walked the more the tides drifted into obscurity. It was tempting, of course, but no more than brightly coloured fruit is tempting you to eat it. Only fragments of the sea would remain, and those few were merely cracked shells of a greater whole, never to be remedied. But would that prevent an elf from trying anyway? To attempt to recover what was lost, if to catch one more glimpse of that eternal sea one last time?

That, da'len, is why I once sought the Dalish. Now I'd never waste my time on the possibility that they might be saved. Because they will never change. Unlike I, they will never cease to strive for the sea. Whilst I must continue forward, until I might find a way to end this miserable cycle."

Lahris fell silent. The wisdom of his story resided within her as her mind played the scene twice. It was so strange to her. Yes, she had known of the Bellanaris'vallas. An uncommon beauty said to hold the hearts of princes. Her father had once dreamed of such a place. Of course, even as wealthy as her family was, she would never have been witness to its splendours. Tales and crewed paintings were the only depictions she had.

She allowed her thoughts to drift to the reason for their gathering. He spoke like her people. He reminisced like her. He sought understanding. That much was true. When she saw him she saw no trickery in his honestly curious glances, no deceit in his gestures or inquiries. He gave her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps it was time to step out of the shadows. Perhaps it was her time to follow in his steps into the white sands of her past, and finally free herself of following a reflection of reality. Perhaps it was time to share her burdens instead of locking them away in her heart.

 _Ash revas enathe i Solas._

Her freedom begins from Pride.

Through it all the apostate observed her curiously, sat as he was beneath the old creaking willow. The curve of his lips faltered and fell. His gaze struck her intently, as if his next words held significant importance. "If you don't mind, I have a question. With the Dalish there has always been one story passed through the generations. It is a matter stated amongst all their clans, a hope they always strive to recreate. An ancient city. Arlathan. Surely they have spoken of it? What did you think of their descriptions? Did you think they ever became even a fracture close to reality? Or did they get that wrong as well? I ask, for you say your Sahlin are different. But aren't their false truths just the same as the rest?"

There was hope in his stare. Hope she so rarely saw with him. And it saddened her, for she could not be the vision of history that he wanted. It was the same with many elves in her clan, despite them knowing only a part of who she truly was. To think she knew everything of her time, when in actuality she was merely a bystander to an ever-static era that she never thought to memorise. At least, not everything in vivid detail.

She nervously licked her lips, and shook her head. "I'm not sure I can comment. I'm not even sure what it was like myself. I heard stories. Arlathan was so far away from my home that we never ventured there, even through eluvians. I had academies and lecturers and fields and libraries to fill my time. I could explore the grounds around my father's estate. There were courts as well. I needed no other city to fill my wiles. Everything was close to home."

"Then would you tell me about them? I'd cherish your memories as I cherish the Fade."

So she spoke, of her beautiful home of Virellin masked in natural magics that could call rainbows to draw forth from clouds, and clouds to shimmer in shades. Of towers that glittered in both daylight and moonlight. Of fountains that granted wishes and boons. Of ocean creatures that floated within the air over the shores, and of the splenderous afternoon walks along her estate's gardens. Of the intrigues and mysteries of ancient courtrooms, and finally of her own family. Of the chivalry of her valiant brother. Of the innocence of her sweet sister. Of the gentle caress of her dear mother, as well as of the stern pride of her father, whom always held his love for her behind closed doors. They were nobility. Stone in the face of lower masses. Affectionate as any family when within closed walls.

In her reminiscence tears had freely fell. Laughs shook the forest to wake. Her fingers were left trembling against her arms like delicate pine-needles, yet despite the memories that slipped from her lips and knowledge that caught the evening breeze, a beaming smile was ever-present. Until she finished.

Solas throughout it all never spoke. When she eventually finished he cradled his hands in his lap and responded in tones of untapped wonderment, "How I envy you, to have seen a place that I could not."

"You shouldn't," she said, when her own joy gradually descended into much too familiar melancholy. "You really shouldn't. I remember home as if it was yesterday. Time... time doesn't mend a broken heart. Not for the eternal. It weaves and binds and creases into something intangible that never fades. Like the Bellanaris'vallas. You are the fortunate one, Solas. You grew from this foreign land. You never had to wake to find everyone so soulless. You can imagine Arlathan but never have to feel the pain of losing it. Sometimes I wish I never could remember such things. Sometimes I would rather forget what will never return."

His mouth thinned, though not in disappointment; simply at the answer itself and what it implied. To him memories were cherished above all else. Above treasure and kingdoms and incantations. For her to say such a thing must have been blasphemous. "You don't mean that."

"Don't I?"

He took her hands in his. It was only there, encompassed in the warmth of aged passion, that she realised how cold she truly was.

"The pain will be there for a time, but it will fade. The memories you hold never will. They should be treasured, because you are one of the last of the People. You cannot know how special you are."

He gently reached out and cupped her chin. "You change... _everything_. Spirits like yours are too far too few. That should not be wasted...

"Ever," he whispered, with a slow bow of his head.

For a brief instant she thought he would press his brow against her own. Close as they were, his slow breaths heated new life into her achy bones, and the comfort of his chest seemed so very tempting, as late in the night that it was. She was sure it was past midnight. Perhaps an hour over. To sleep on something soft that wasn't horse hide that would writher and neigh would have been bliss.

Lahris missed snuggling into pillows within the nook of a well proportioned bed. Feathered pillows and silken duvets with the scents of cherries on the quilts - her eyes begun to drift. The sudden comprehension of his statement swiftly shook her from her reverie.

The elvhen blinked, then pouted. "Everything? I... change everything?"

Solas suddenly freed his hands, forcing them to his sides. He coughed and hastily wiped the back of his neck. "I... I meant..."

Noticing the reddening tinge of his ears, her hands came to her lips to stifle a chuckle. She quickly grasped one of his hands again and dragged him closer to her. "Hahren," she drawled, cheekily batting her eyelashes, "don't be shy now. Tell me. What did you mean?"

"I... I meant..."

Lahris inclined her head, and noticed the way his gaze rested on the shift of her hair falling down her chest. "I do believe this apostate is turning plum. Oh, how adorable!"

"I-I am most certainly not, da'len, anything of the sort would be inappropriate-"

"Inappropriately mischievous, you mean?" The luster in her teasing slowly fell into mild concern. She withdrew her hands quickly. "I was only teasing, Solas. Seeing you flail is a funny sight. You meant it kindly. I know that."

His bashful grin drifted into a frown. "Yes, of course. A figure of speech. Nothing more."

"If you were to finish it differently, though, how would you?"

"I'm not sure what you mean?"

"If you were to finish it like you cared, other than as my hahren and the status I am, how would you?"

A sudden pride enveloped him, and a confidence that truly had her freeze in her place. "I would tell you honestly. That you are unique. That despite the perills you endured, you rose above them all with a strength and wit that I had not seen since... since my journeyings into the ancient memories of the Fade. I thought a spirit like yours extinct. You showed me differently, even in the short time we've known each other. Knowing you has been a pleasure, Lahris Elgar'shiral. And I hope we... that... we continue... to be... close... and that I can share... with you... I... everything..." His breath fluttered over her chin.

In a subtle shift in their embrace their lips quietly met. Lahris lay still, numb to his touch, for his hand, so gentle, came to rest beneath the curve of her ear, to tilt her jaw ever-so-slightly his way. His lips softly drifted over her own with small pecks that were far too innocent to become something entirely passionate. Yet as butterfly-like as their blending caresses were, Var'sulahn felt nothing more than her mystifying new world float into a pleasantly dreamy silence. One that filled her with the bubbling rise of a first truly innocent romance.

Hearing a soft moan escape his throat drew the two of them slowly apart. Her focus danced across his face, with her eyes so dim and oval that she seemed to be in a trance. When he attempted to speak she touched his lips once more, if to revel in the cushioned taste of a trusted lover one more time before her inevitable asunder into reality.

 _One more moment, please._

She pleaded to Dirthamen. She pleaded to the Seven. She even dared to plead to Andraste. She needed it. She needed him, even if it meant that he would eventually turn askance to the Brecillian and forever leave her wanting something she knew he never truly yearned.

He was an apostate. A roamer. A wanderer. Free. Var'sulahn was a myth in all but memory. Lahris Elgar'shiral was a spirit attempting to fit in a world that was wrongly awry and askew. They would never fit. They were not symmetry. Even if they were, symmetry would not fit in such an imperfect world. It was destined for failure.

"I'm sorry," Solas whispered, and his every word shattered a piece of her heart into pieces. "I'm sorry," he moaned, gently kissing her lips until he grew accustomed to her warmth. Accustomed enough to remember. "I... I can't... it isn't right. Not for you."

He must have felt the chill of her tear before it slipped down her cheek. "Don't be sorry," she smiled, shaking her head. "Don't be. Ever. It was enough."

"You deserve better."

"I understand."

"I never planned on-"

"Kissing?"

"Yes, and no." He turned his attention to the glade, forcing his blush to diminish. "The kiss was impulsive. Ill-considered. I apologise."

Lahris forced herself to smile and quietly snuggled into his chest. The apostate suddenly froze, but the late evening had drained much of her energy, and when there was an embarrassing moment once upon a time, her younger sister would tackle the nearest person to cut the tension. Her own action was meant for the same effect.

Strangely, her tall frame fit perfectly into his with her knees draped leisurely over his knees. She drew hers close, sighing into the scents of woodland earth and marshes. His slow breaths heated her neck and shoulder, quickening to harsh pants when she nuzzled his neck and clutched the wolf fur dressing his chest.

He sloped into their alcove beneath the willow, resting his chin against her brow and slipping an arm around her waist. It was only loose yet his heat eased any tension from her wary muscles.

"Solas?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you be able to show me the Bellanaris'vallas in the Fade?"

He laughed then, a light and genuine laugh that had his shoulders rising and falling in time with the crackling fire. "Is that truly what you wish to see?"

"Yes."

He exchanged a brief glance with her, his gaze soft, before he returned to look at the sky. "Perhaps. Perhaps I could show you more." He felt her smile and held her closer.

"I will think of something."

~~o~~


End file.
